


Of Putrefaction, Saccharine

by inter_spem_et_metum



Series: A Thousand Savage Futures [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Bad French Accents, Christmas in November, Crying, Dancy has weird hobbies, Dark Will, European dandy, First Kiss, General bitchiness, Hanni always knows what you're thinking, Lithuanian food, M/M, Mizumono-no-no, Nightmares, Post-TWOTL, Pouting, Sexytimes, Sometimes fluffy, Will is not impressed, are you observing or participating, battlefield medicine, cannibal humor, catfighting brides, cemetery stalking, creative use of harpsichord strings, dat ass, dinner party fail, first LOTS o' things, food as lube, he's in a Biblical place, how the hell do I eat this, how to bake a murder muffin, love crimes, memory palaces, murder date fail, murder husbands on the lam, murderrific, nightmarish sexytimes, not enough morphine, philosophizing during sex, post-season 3, three-piece suits, wendigo bangin', what have you gotten yourself into Bedelia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-07
Updated: 2016-04-07
Packaged: 2018-05-31 22:16:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 53,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6489478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inter_spem_et_metum/pseuds/inter_spem_et_metum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After narrowly surviving their fall from the cliff, Hannibal and Will embark on a journey that takes them across the ocean and deep into their own psyches. As they battle demons both old and new, will they spiral out of control, or will Hannibal and Will finally unite to become something larger than themselves?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The carcass of the lion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Vrazdova](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vrazdova/gifts).



> **SERIES NOTE:** The third part of [_A Thousand Savage Futures_](https://archiveofourown.org/series/515785) — [_Eve of Dreams (Le Réveillon des Rêves)_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11906748) — concluded in October 2017.
> 
>  **STORY NOTES:** This story is a gift for the wonderful and very talented [vrazdova](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Vrazdova/works). Also, countless thanks to my awesome editor, [kymellin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Kymellin/).
> 
>  **Disclaimers:** I took some necessary dramatic license with Hannibal and Will's dire medical states at the end of _The Wrath of the Lamb._ They seem pretty superhuman throughout the series with regard to morbid injuries, so surviving the fall and their wounds seems plausible—right?! 
> 
> You may also find some small canon-divergent details along the way, but for the most part the story sticks to the show, with some details interspersed from the book series.
> 
> Some of the music in the story can be heard at the following links:  
> [ _Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silence_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MzSRdk5khFU)  
> [ _La Vestale_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iseCDIQnX74)
> 
> The warehouse in Part 3 is based on the [Les Frigos](http://www.messynessychic.com/2012/09/10/abandoned-paris-surviving-through-art/) building. The precise surroundings and dimensions are altered, but all other real places are consistent with the imagery from the series.

_And after a time he returned to take her, and he turned aside to see the carcass of the lion: and, behold, there was a swarm of bees and honey in the carcass of the lion. And he took thereof in his hands, and went on eating, and he came to his father and mother, and he gave to them, and they did eat; but he told them not that he had taken the honey out of the carcass of the lion._ —Book of Judges, Ch. 14 ver. 8–9

_Se non è vero, è ben trovato._ —Italian Renaissance proverb

 

A harsh whistle of air—startlingly cold—raked Will's torn face; and then a teeth-rattling shock of seawater swallowed him and Hannibal whole before he had time to close his mouth.

There was a sharp jolt, and an explosion of light and pain, as Hannibal's shoulder crashed into his skull. Then the other man's body went slack in his arms, sinking; and Will swallowed, forcing the salt and ice down his throat instead of into his lungs.

His legs suddenly remembered that they needed to move, and he kicked back against the violent swirl of tide that threatened to drag them deeper. His boots were heavy against the drag of the current. He'd lost his footing in fast creeks before; been pulled, along with his fishing rod, a few yards downstream before scrambling back upright. But this was the ocean—the _roiling Atlantic_ , as Hannibal had described it—and the pull of its current was like that of a black hole. It would swallow them alive if Will let it.

He tightened his grip around Hannibal—who appeared to be out cold—and pushed them toward the surface with the last dregs of strength left in his body. He bit against the burning in his oxygen-starved lungs and the salt-seared crescendos of pain in his face and shoulder, willing his fingertips to touch air. There was no sunlight to mark the difference between up and down, water and earth. It was impossible to tell how deep they'd sunk, or how far the surface was above them.

Will kicked again, harder—twice, three times—and then his hand broke through the murky skein of ocean water. He gasped, filling his lungs as his head broke the surface. Air had never tasted so sweet.

He pulled Hannibal up alongside him, ensuring that his nose and mouth were clear of the water. They'd emerged a half-dozen yards beyond a cluster of jagged, salt-crusted boulders at the base of the bluff. Hannibal had been knocked unconscious at some point on the way down—likely on a rock protrusion. His head tipped heavily against Will's shoulder. A thin trail of blood leaked from the corner of his mouth, mixing with the seawater. _Dolarhyde's blood, or his own?_ he wondered. There was no way to tell how badly Hannibal had been hurt. He had to get him to shore.

Between slaps of briny water that made him gag and stung the gash in his face, Will glimpsed a small expanse of beach nestled against the sharp black slope. He could no longer feel his feet and his thigh muscles were starting to go numb, but a half-dozen strokes would bring them to land. Never in his life had Will been so eager to be _out_ of the water.

_Why make the effort? What was the point of falling, then?_ A taunting voice flared inside his mind, its cold accusation surpassing the icy chill of the seawater. _Are you actually_ afraid _to die?_

He gritted his teeth. A flare of pain traversed the torn flesh of his cheek. "Call it _survival instinct_ ," he muttered, with equal derision, and the voice fell silent as Will used his damaged arm to slice through the foam-flecked water, ignoring the loss of sensation as his fingertips grew numb from blood loss and cold.

Less than a minute later, Will dragged himself over a ridge of slime-covered rocks and onto the gravelly bank, lugging Hannibal with him. It took a few tugs to pull the other man's body completely out of the water, but soon he'd hauled both of them a safe distance from the crash of the waves. He collapsed face-down on the rough shore, gasping, his fingers digging into the pebbles and crushed seashells beneath him. _Solid earth._

Will's heart was pounding with the strain of pulling Hannibal through the water. The stab wound below his collarbone screamed in protest as he pushed himself up from the ground. Every scrape and puncture from the fight with Dolarhyde was smarting with pain and salt and cold, and the side of his head throbbed dully where Hannibal's shoulder had hit it. But Will could spare no thought for his own injuries. He needed to see how badly Hannibal had been hurt.

He rolled to his knees and crawled to the other man's seemingly lifeless body. Gingerly, he maneuvered Hannibal into his lap, supporting his head against his thigh. A small trickle of blood was visible from the bullet hole in his abdomen. Will searched with careful fingers until he found the corresponding entrance wound in Hannibal's back—through-and-through. It was possible the bullet had missed his major organs and arteries, but that hope couldn't be confirmed just yet.

However, a thick ribbon of blood oozed from a fresh wound high on Hannibal's left temple. It snaked down his forehead and along his cheekbone in a crimson calligraphy. Will tilted Hannibal's head to the side, wiping away the blood with his shirtsleeve so it wouldn't pool in his eye socket.

The touch caused the other man to stir. His eyes opened, one at a time, unfocused as they met Will's gaze. A slow smile spread across his face.

"Were you trying to kill me again, Will?"

Will opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He clutched at the soaked fabric of Hannibal's ruined pullover. Watery beads of blood dripped from his jaw onto the other man's cheek. Behind them, the restless ocean splattered its vitriol against the rocks.

"I didn't—"

Before Will could manage more words, Hannibal's eyes rolled back into his head. A violent spasm seized his limbs, snapping them like rubber bands.

He threw his body over Hannibal's, frantically trying to anchor the other man to the ground as his arms and legs jerked and his fingers scraped wildly at the dirt, the air, Will's arms.

"Stop! _No!_ " Will distantly registered the sound of his own voice screaming over the waves as Hannibal convulsed underneath him.

"Hannibal! _Stop!_ " He shoved his forearms against the other man's shoulders, pressing the entire weight of his torso down on him. Seizures felt far more powerful than they looked, Will thought, gritting his teeth as he rode out the waves of Hannibal's convulsion. He wildly hoped that Hannibal hadn't bitten through his tongue.

In delayed compliance, Hannibal's body gave a final, flimsy jerk, and then stilled. His chest was heaving. Will exhaled with a choked sound, feeling like a bellows squeezed of all its air, and unfolded himself from the other man's frame. His face was ashen—but there was no sign of fresh blood, Will saw with provisional relief.

He coughed and scrubbed his soiled sleeve across his forehead, leaving a smear of watery blood behind. More was running from the angry gouge in Hannibal's temple. It trailed down his neck and dripped into Will's lap, marking them both.

He tore a strip from his other shirtsleeve and bunched it into a ball, then carefully moved Hannibal's head from his knee. He placed the makeshift pillow under his skull, softening the bite of the gravel.

Pebbles crunched under the soles of Will's shoes as he rocked back on his heels. He shivered as the adrenaline began to filter out of his system. Despite his exhaustion, the pains in his face and shoulder were screaming. _What next?_ The rank, salty air whipped around his wet back and shoulders and stirred the disheveled strings of hair across Hannibal's forehead. The waves crashed mercilessly on the black rocks, again and again, foamy fingers stretching out for his and Hannibal's mortality with each heavy, hungry thrust.

Will shivered. They needed to get up to the house somehow—to warmth and, hopefully, to medical supplies. But to do that, they would need to climb. And Hannibal was unconscious. Again. He knew that brain injury-related seizures could be followed by more, just as violent, or none at all; and that Hannibal could be out for anywhere from a few minutes to several hours— _if_ he woke. Will bit his tongue, crushing the thought before it could bloom into a scream he couldn't contain. A burst of coppery blood welled in his mouth. _Ironic._

Spray from the waves flecked his face, stabbing his ripped cheek. He pushed himself back against the rock wall and drew his legs to his chest, hugging his good arm around his knees for warmth. He would give Hannibal's brain a few minutes to recover, and then he would try to rouse him. If he woke, hopefully he'd be able to stand. Will knew he didn't have the strength to drag someone Hannibal's size for very long, even without the blood loss he'd sustained. He'd probably lost nearly a pint, and counting. Both of them were dangerously close to hypovolemic shock.

He leaned his head against the side of the bluff and stared out across the dark and empty ocean, waiting.

 

___

 

Hannibal opened his eyes. His salt-crusted eyelids smarted and stung, and the side of his head ached as though he'd been kicked. He blinked. Everything throbbed and blurred. So much pain for such a small movement.

His entire body felt frozen, as though he'd been put on ice and left to dry. Except he wasn't at all _dry_. The cold seep of saltwater clung to his flesh like the scent of recently departed life to a fresh corpse. He had the vague sense that the sea had swallowed him and then regurgitated his body—but where had it spit him out?

His ears registered the sound of the ocean slapping against rock and—ah. _Now_ he remembered. From earth he'd tumbled, through air, and then to water—and now it seemed he was descending into the hungry fires of hypothermia. Empedocles' four roots, strung together in an arguably odd fashion—but one that left him no less tethered to the earth from which he'd started.

His limbs felt disconnected from his body. Numb. He wondered absently if his back was broken.

Something soft and damp cushioned his head. Seaweed, maybe. Hannibal licked the inside of his cheek, noting—with relish—that he could still taste Francis' sour flesh and salty blood on his tongue. The ocean had stolen his body's essential heat and possibly his mobility, but at least it hadn't robbed him of his _plat du jour_.

He rolled his eyes, searching for Will (who, presumably, had pulled him onto the bank) and found him huddled at the base of the bluff a few feet away. His head was tipped back against the salt-slick rock, hair hanging in damp tendrils against his face—the right half of which was dark with blood. His mouth hung slightly agape, brow furrowed. If Hannibal hadn't known better, he might've thought Will was sleeping. But no—that was a face of exhaustion, not respite. And he was shivering, limbs trembling in minute jerks within the sodden tatters of clothing plastered to his body.

How much more blood had Will lost while pulling them free of the Atlantic's icy claws? And how much did Hannibal himself have left in his own body to propel him upright—assuming his spinal cord was still in working order? He flinched as the bullet wound in his abdomen made itself known with a bright flare of pain. Not paralyzed, then; that was one question answered. Time to discover the truth of the other.

Hannibal pushed himself to a sitting position, wincing at the sharp tenderness in his lower back but noting, with a kind of manic satisfaction, that a similar pain also echoed from his front—Francis' bullet had passed straight through him.

The hole was low enough that he suspected it had missed his liver and kidney, though the same probably couldn't be said for his intestines. Surgery could save them, but preventing infection would be a trickier matter. He needed to get to his surgical kit inside the house. He didn't intend to die on a frigid Atlantic beach of septic shock.

Despite his disorientation, Hannibal knew instinctively that he'd been damaged further somehow. A probe at the painful lump of flesh above his temple confirmed his suspicion. Laceration and concussion caused by striking something—probably a rock—during their fall. That explained his fuzzy memory of being pulled out of the ocean, and his unconscious state.

His eyes turned to a scrap of bloodstained fabric crumpled on the ground beside him. It matched Will's shirt. Had it been torn off by the elements, or by the man's own hand? What fresh wounds had their plummet caused Will?

Hannibal knew that neither of them had much time before they'd _need_ to find shelter and treatment. To think that they'd survived being shot, stabbed, thrown off a cliff, and then half-drowned in freezing seawater—and that Will had mustered the strength to haul them to safety—was both unexpected and surprising. It was a refreshing observation, as Hannibal rarely found himself surprised.

However, at the moment, he didn't hold much faith in his own weakened body's ability to make it up the steep, hidden path to the house. Maybe Will would help him—assuming his own injuries hadn't incapacitated him.

Hannibal turned his head—and was startled to see the other man staring back at him. (Two surprises now; perhaps he _was_ experiencing mild shock, after all.)

He was coiled into a tangle of arms and legs, his crimson-smeared clothes hanging wetly on his angular frame. His right eye was nearly swollen shut by the gash in his face, and his jaw was a tense knot of muscle. If Will had been a dog, his ears would've been crushed flat against his skull, tail rigid.

"Will." Hannibal's voice came out like sludge, barely rising above the harsh murmur of the sea.

"Hannibal." The other man's tone was calm; nearly monotone. Hannibal's brow creased as he worried again how much blood Will had lost during their tango with the Dragon. The right side of his face was a shredded mess, and the area below his collarbone looked no better.

With a huff of pain, Hannibal pushed himself to his feet—too quickly, he realized. He swayed as the blood rushed to his head, and he grabbed the side of his skull with both hands. His pulse thundered like a jackhammer in his brain. In the space of second Will was there, cupping Hannibal's elbow with one hand and curling his other around Hannibal's arm.

"Whoa—wait, _easy_ ," Will steadied him, and the hammering in his skull ebbed. "You okay?"

Hannibal managed a sarcastic laugh. "That wouldn't be the word I'd choose for either of us at the moment."

Will seemed to realize the inanity of the question as fresh blood seeped through Hannibal's splayed fingers and down his wrist. "Are you—can you stand?" he asked.

"I _am_ standing. So yes," Hannibal snapped, his irritation at his body's fragility clawing through his words. His feet felt simultaneously numb and tender, and he suddenly realized that both of his shoes and one sock were missing. Di Biancos, and barely broken in—a horrific waste.

"Yeah, but without falling," Will clarified, undaunted. He reached his good arm around Hannibal's back as he swayed again. "Do you think you can walk?"

He tipped his head. "In a minute. And you?"

"Yeah. Surprisingly." A small, sad smile flickered across Will's face, and Hannibal felt inexplicably less cold. "But I don't think rock climbing's on the agenda." He nodded at his right arm, which hung limply at his side.

"No need," Hannibal exhaled as he braced his feet against the gravel, willing his limbs to hold him upright. "Dumb luck, or maybe God just wanted you to have a backup plan. You hurled us off at the perfect spot."

"What d'you mean? There's a way _up_?"

Will's words blurred inside Hannibal's brain as another wave of lightheadedness overtook him, accompanied by an undercurrent of nausea. The laceration on his temple hadn't felt deep. He _shouldn't_ be this woozy.

"Of sorts," he answered, swallowing the sick feeling in the back of his throat. "Not easy, but it's possible. Miriam scrambled her way down here once. Nearly killed herself climbing over the rocks. She had a fair amount of psychotropic substances in her system at the time."

Hannibal coughed. His head was throbbing. He pressed his hand to his temple and felt the warm slide of blood over his fingers. "Convincing her to come back up took a great deal of patience. I had to watch her very closely. Or else she might've done exactly what you did."        

Will's eyes tracked the movement of Hannibal's hand. "You, uh. You hit your head on something when we—" He faltered, his voice stumbling, "—um, when we went … over." The last word was spoken in a whisper, barely audible over the waves. Will looked down, unable to hold Hannibal's gaze.  

Hannibal swiped the blood away from his temple with the back of his hand, and brushed it off on his trouser leg. He searched the other man's face for an answer to a question neither of them had yet asked.

"There's blood on your forehead. Blood in your thoughts. I heard it when we were with the Dragon, pulsing through your veins. Your heart." Hannibal gestured toward the moon, which was now hanging high and bulbous in the sky. "When we fell together, did it also wound you further? Or do you feel whole now?"

Hannibal watched Will's face change as he looked up, absorbing the intended double meaning.

"If it _did_ wound me," he said, his words measured, "Are you asking if I can be fixed?"

Hannibal was silent. His eyes flickered to the other man's neck, where a muscle ticked involuntarily, and then back to his mangled face. Will's heavy blue eyes searched his, as the hand that cupped his elbow slid up his arm, surprisingly absent of hesitation. His fingers rested atop Hannibal's shoulder, feather-light.

He pulled Hannibal to him in a delicate repeat of the embrace they'd shared on the cliff. The smear of blood across Will's forehead—Hannibal's own blood—stained their skins as he tipped his forehead to Hannibal's cheek.

"I don't know," Will breathed, his voice trembling. "Whole isn't—it's not something I'm used to feeling."

The words whispered across Hannibal's skin and he sighed, allowing his eyes to drop closed for a moment. If they lived, there would be time for Will to understand. To _see._ But here, now—shivering beneath the bluff of their simultaneous consecration and near-annihilation—Will was still too shocked at his own survival to admire the glorious depths of his rise and fall.

And to continue surviving, Hannibal knew they would need to ascend.

"Your mind was never broken, Will. But our bodies will be, if we don't get back to the house." He coughed again. His throat stung with salt—raw and angry, like the rest of his body. "We'll need to clean up."

The other man nodded once, gravely, and Hannibal saw that he both understood and accepted every implication of the words _clean up_. More work awaited them after they sewed themselves back together—work that would, with careful strategy and a dash of luck, give both of them a moment to breathe after the night's complicating events.

"You might be a little unsteady," Will said, looping his good arm around Hannibal's back. His skin was surprisingly warm beneath his bedraggled clothing; Hannibal swayed to it like a moth to a candle. "I'll help you."

Together, they hobbled toward the crevice in the cliff—bone-weary, shivering, and bleeding from every wound except the one between them that was now closed.

 

___

 

Their struggle up the rocky passageway was slow, and measured in teeth-chattering steps. Hannibal counted each one, mostly to keep his wooziness at bay. Will's hand on his back was a steady spot of warmth propelling him forward. Like their stumbling paces, it helped Hannibal to focus.

When they finally reached the house, the two men exchanged their wet clothing for bath towels and blankets to assuage the shaking in their limbs. Their faces were ashen; their fingers and toes had gone gray with cold. Twin heartbeats, elevated from the climb and from mild hypothermia, wound down as they languished in their brief rest.

Will's relief was palpable as he helped Hannibal procure the necessary medical supplies, including sutures, bandages, syringes, lidocaine, and an array of steel surgical tools. He knew that Will probably assumed no one but a doctor or a hunter would keep such an extensive array of medical equipment in a second home. Hannibal, being both, was ever pragmatic.

Between the two of them, they compressed, cleaned, disinfected, sutured, and then bandaged every puncture and gash with efficient precision. Few words passed between them. The places where Francis' bullet had breached Hannibal's flesh were clean, and a surface examination reaffirmed his initial suspicion that the inside of his body had been just as lucky.

There was, he knew, a slim chance that his intestines had emerged unscathed, and so preventing infection after the rough surgery he and Will jointly performed on the bathroom floor would be the most essential factor in his survival. Still, there were no signs of peritonitis or splenic, kidney, or bladder rupture, and Hannibal's pulse remained steady. The odds, and possibly even Fortune herself, had smiled on him this night.

Will's wounds were more straightforward, and characterized by a blessed absence of nerve damage. Hannibal patiently sewed up his torn face with the smallest sutures he could manage in his stiff and still-groggy state. Will gripped the bathroom sink, white-knuckled, as though he might slide to the floor at any moment.

"Still as a statue, Will," Hannibal murmured, as the needle pierced the flesh of his cheek—in and through, back and out—sixteen times.

The scar that Francis' knife would leave on his face would be worse than its perpendicular brother on his forehead, which Hannibal had given to Will more than three years ago. The thought made Hannibal frown as he washed his hands of Will's blood and saliva in the sink. It wouldn't surpass the curved slash across his abdomen, of course; but that scar was invariably hidden from the rest of the world. Hannibal didn't like being outdone—even superficially.

In the jarring light from the platform lamp above the mirror, Hannibal parted his hair this way and that, evaluating the purpling lump and V-shaped gash at his temple, along with the red-and-yellow bruise that ringed his left eye. It was a colorful display—one that would offer a rapidly changing canvas over the course of the next week. _If_ his body made it through the next few days.

The laceration had still been bleeding when they'd reached the house. However, now that the blood and torn skin were cleaned off, Hannibal could see that it wouldn't require stitches. Head wounds were overly dramatic creatures, leaking blood in sloppy, spurting waves from the smallest breaches, until effectively silenced. Difficult to control on both a medical and an aesthetic level. When it came to cutting, Hannibal stayed well away from the face unless he was suited in plastic, or unless the  _maiale del giorno_ was already dead and the blood had gone sluggish.

Mimicking Hannibal's attentions to his face, Will thoroughly cleaned and compressed the laceration at Hannibal's temple, until the blood flow was finally stemmed. The hand that held the cloth to his head was steady; and Will's pulse thrummed with a healthy staccato where his wrist rested against the side of his face. He was almost sorry when the wound had clotted and Will's warmth disappeared from his skin.

Compression was followed by an application of antibiotic ointment, over which Will secured a swath of gauze with surgical tape. A cloth bandage, wrapped several times around Hannibal's skull, completed the dressing.

Peering into the bathroom mirror, he assessed Will's work. He poked at the dressing, checking that it was secure, as Will hovered in back of him, tired but attentive. Out of the blue, a memory surfaced of a game that he and Mischa had played as children. Hannibal's mouth split into an impulsive grin at his reflection in the mirror.

"You've crowned me, Will," Hannibal said. His eyes met the other man's in the glass as he touched his fingertips to the thick white bandage circling his head. "That makes me king of the mountain." Hannibal turned to face him, resting his palms along the edge of the sink. He smirked. "What do you think of the look?"

Will's eyebrow quirked upward in a mix of incredulity and amusement. "I can't believe you have the energy to make jokes."

Hannibal pressed his lips into a thin smile. He was pleased to see that Will's face was no longer overly pale. He needed him to be strong to complete the task that came next.

Without warning, a sudden flash of pain seared across Hannibal's frontal lobe, blinding him. For a brief second, the room—and Will's figure inside the doorway—blurred. He pressed his hand to his temple, steadying himself. His little concussion was growing more inconvenient by the hour, it seemed.

"Mhm. Only one," he said, the mirth disappearing from his tone as his focus slowly readjusted. He hoped the lapse hadn't been too obvious. "What comes next isn't a joking matter."

Will's eyebrow jumped. "What d'you mean?"

"Do you have the strength to drive?"

He nodded, his expression turning serious.

"Good. I want you to listen carefully. We have a few housekeeping duties to take care of. If we succeed, we'll have a little time to lick our wounds before Jack Crawford tries to find us."

 

___

 

Will clenched the wheel of the police cruiser, steering with his undamaged shoulder. The wintry eastern air whipped over his face through the broken side window as he sped away from Baltimore. Just a few more miles; then he'd finally be able to rest. Let his mind drift away from everything—for a little while, at least.

After they'd finished attending to their wounds, Hannibal had doled out painkillers for each of them—non-narcotic for Will, since he needed his motor skills, and codeine for himself. Then Hannibal had gone to take care of Dolarhyde's body. Will had made himself useful by cleaning the dried blood from the inside of the patrol car's windshield and knocking out the remaining shards of glass from the passenger window. Then he'd driven an hour and twenty minutes to the BWI Airport, where he'd parked in a shadowy corner of an empty parking lot just outside the airport perimeter. The dead weeds whispered between the asphalt cracks in the lot as he'd removed and disabled the cruiser's internal GPS system, just as Hannibal had instructed him.

He hadn't bothered to taper the shredded wires or tuck the loose mechanical guts back into the disemboweled dash; time was not an available luxury. He buried the small metal box housing the tracking device in a copse of sumac nearby, making it neither too easy nor too difficult for a trained eye to find. Will knew the FBI would still be able to track the cruiser's disabled GPS system using backup data. However, pegging their location at the airport would buy him and Hannibal some time—and, more importantly, help them to temporarily disappear.

As an afterthought, he unscrewed the license plate and threw it in the trunk. If he was going to be driving around in a stolen police car, he might as well make it as hard to identify as possible.

Now officially off the radar (but possibly _en route_ to some sunny South American country without an extradition treaty, as far as the disembodied GPS was concerned), Will drove without stopping, shivering in the night air whooshing in through the busted-out side window.

His throat ached for water and his stomach was empty. He couldn't remember when he'd last eaten a solid meal. The temptation to make a quick pass through a middle-of-nowhere truck stop rose with every green exit sign he passed, but he knew he shouldn't risk it. By now, his and Hannibal's faces likely graced several high-priority APBs that had been distributed to every gas station and rest stop in the state. Besides, he didn't look very much like a cop at the moment. Hannibal was right—they needed time to think, and time for their bodies to recover.

Hannibal's head injury—and his resulting concussion and weakness—had limited his usefulness to dismembering Dolarhyde's body, and disguising the evidence of their brawl on the terrace. If anyone, whether friend (of which they had few) or foe (of which they'd made many in the past eight hours) happened to wander past the house, at least it wouldn't appear as though a bloodbath had recently taken place on the patio.

If Will had kept his focus on the killing, instead of on Hannibal—if he hadn't allowed himself to reach out for him as he'd always ached to, arms trembling, head spinning with adrenaline and pain, heart clattering in his chest like so many hooves over stone—then Hannibal would be here with him now, spinning out plans for subterfuge and damage control like a spider weaving its web. Not back at the house with a concussion, spraying down the patio.

Like a spider, Hannibal was most vicious when he was nimble. And also a master of using both silk and steel to ensnare anyone who drew too close. Silken words he would still be able to spin, but he wouldn't be wielding any carving knives in the near future—not after a bullet to the gut and a brain injury. Will found the thought neither discouraging nor comforting.

His own injuries, on the other hand, were less complicated, if uglier looking. The knife wound in his shoulder had left his right arm stiff and nearly immobile for the time being, but he suspected a heavy dose of pain medication would help with that. He could still barely see out of his right eye—which made driving an interesting experience—though Hannibal had assured him that the swelling would go down quickly. Will wondered if he'd be able to eat with his mangled cheek. He really _was_ hungry.

His stomach wasn't the only part of him that felt empty, though. Despite having struggled out of the ocean alive and (mostly) whole, Will was left with a sinking feeling deep in his core that he was broken, possibly beyond repair—and not in the way that Hannibal needed him to be. It was the _wrong_ kind of broken, and he knew the other man would see it sooner rather than later. If both of them lived, of course.

Will's unease grew as he pulled off the feeder road and onto the long dirt driveway to the house. He parked around back, flicked off the headlights, and clambered out of the driver's seat, flinching as his bandaged shoulder bumped the doorframe of the dilapidated cruiser. Eyelids drooping with exhaustion and cold, he shuffled across the damp patio to the back entrance. The house was dark; only a low flicker of firelight shone through the wide glass windows of the great room.

He absently wondered where Hannibal had stored Dolarhyde's body. Then he remembered the industrial-sized freezer he'd glimpsed against the far wall of the basement when Hannibal had sent him downstairs to retrieve some old towels for their surgery. (Which spoke volumes about the man's fussiness; he was unwilling to soil his _good_ bathroom towels—the hand-scalloped Egyptian cotton ones—even while hovering on the brink of hypovolemic shock.)

Hannibal wasn't in the great room when he came inside. The embers of the small fire Will had built before setting out for the airport glowed against the far wall, forgotten. The disused house's sluggish heating system was still catching up, and the outside temperature was plummeting as the hours crept toward dawn. He'd imagined joining Hannibal at the hearth, folding down beside him in mutual misery, like a broken accordion. Maybe the heat from the fire would've reached them both—would've melted the chilly fingers of doubt Will felt creeping up his spine.

The dying firelight illuminated the shiny linoleum floor and he saw, with surprise, that the space next to the piano had been cleared of broken glass. Both wine and blood had been wiped away. The hollow feeling in Will's gut intensified. _He_ should've been the one to clean up Hannibal's blood. He'd orchestrated their meeting with the Dragon; it was his fault that Hannibal had been shot.

He flashed back to the dark, pleading look Hannibal had thrown him when Dolarhyde had pulled out his switchblade. It was the only time Will could remember seeing fear in Hannibal's eyes. Disappointment, yes; anger, yes. But never fear. Would he see something different in Hannibal's eyes now, after what they'd done together on the cliff?

"Hannibal?" he called tentatively, padding through the dining area and poking his head into the kitchen.

"Down the hall to your left, Will," came the muted reply from some unseen corner of the house. Will followed it to a room he hadn't yet seen—the master bedroom, which was down a short hallway off the glass-cocooned sitting room.

Through the gloom, he could make out a four-poster bed. Solid hardwood, by the look of it. It was spread with an embroidered gold coverlet heavily adorned with beadwork and tassels—a lush contrast to the house's sleek, mostly modern furnishings. The fabric shimmered in the moonlight spilling in from the windows. It reminded Will of an article he'd flipped through in a doctor's office once on the colorful souks of Marrakech. He'd never been to Morocco, but it had always seemed like an interesting spot for an out-of-the-way vacation. He wondered now if he'd ever be able to travel again on his own passport.

Hannibal was sitting on the edge of the bed atop the thick coverlet, his hands twisted into the fabric on either side of him. His chest was bare, and a pair of striped pajama bottoms sat loosely on his hips. Above the waistband of his pajamas peeked the square of gauze bandage taped around his abdomen, marking the exit wound from Dolarhyde's bullet—a startling geometry of whiteness against Hannibal's tawny skin.

The other man's eyes locked on his in the darkness, and Will saw him instantly take in his pained posture, the tired but affirming set of his mouth that bespoke of a successful journey to Baltimore, and the unshed anguish in his eyes. Will didn't have the strength to hide himself at the moment. Nevertheless, this was one of Hannibal's preeminent gifts—the ability to read a person's emotional state in a heartbeat's worth of visual assessment.

"Don't blame yourself, Will." Hannibal's words were warm. "It could've just as easily been _me_ helping _you_ up that cliff."

He fixed Hannibal in a stare. " _Would_ you, though—if you were me?" His voice tensed. A sharp wire of doubt uncurled inside him, poking at his exhaustion. "Would you have brought me back? Or would you have left me?"

Hannibal's eyes were two black stones at the bottom of a well. Strands of fawn-colored hair hung limply over the bandage around his skull, fringing his bruised-ringed left eye. He tilted his head in consideration.

Will looked away, feeling his cheeks grow hot as his words tumbled out in a helpless flow. "Hypothermia would've taken only ten, maybe fifteen minutes, to set in. You wouldn't have needed to do anything except _leave_. After what I…" His voice cracked as it trailed off and he felt, rather than saw, Hannibal's body strain toward him at the sound.

" _Will_."

It was a command. Hannibal wanted Will to look at him. Will did.

"When the prodigal son returned from squandering his fortune, did his father disown him?" Hannibal's tone was firm but gentle. It seemed to Will that his eyes shone with an almost preternatural light.

"No, he didn't," Hannibal continued. "His father rejoiced, and embraced him, and threw a great feast to honor his son's return." He paused, running his tongue over his lips. "Rembrandt, Batoni, Tissot, Poytner, and countless others have immortalized the moment of the son's return on canvas. I may not have the strength to offer you a feast tonight. But know that I rejoiced when you embraced me."

Hannibal's hands smoothed against the coverlet. His face was pale, the way it had looked on the beach.

"The prodigal son was a _swineherd_ ," Will said flatly. His throat felt thick; his guts squirmed in angry knots.

"And so you've dined with pigs, on occasion," Hannibal replied. He blinked once, slowly. "But that doesn't make you one of them, Will. Far from it."

"I nearly _killed_ both of us!" he shouted, fully aware of the near-petulant edge to his voice. His ability to sort out all of the emotions crashing together inside of him was rapidly diminishing. He couldn't compartmentalize this. Exhaustion was overtaking the rapid surges of adrenaline that had kept him going until now. He felt frayed at every one of his edges.

The ghost of a smile flitted along Hannibal's lips. "And luckily for _both_ of us, you failed to fulfill that ambition once again." He paused. "However impulsively it may have been conceived, this time."

Will's fears screamed through his head, buzzing and stumbling over Hannibal's reassurances. _But I'm broken, I'm broken and it's not what either of us wanted, if I can't be fixed at least let me be the_ right _kind of broken—_

He silently willed Hannibal to read his thoughts, but the man only sighed and closed his eyes. Will could tell by the sloping line of his shoulders that Hannibal was as drained as he himself was. There was no way of telling what would catch up with them next—the FBI, or infection, or the state police, or even their own raw nerves, sharpened by stress and blood loss and the still-shifting connection that had simultaneously fused and uprooted them. The list of things that could go wrong was lengthy and impressive.

What they needed was time, Will knew. Unfortunately, time was the smallest asset in the already meager pool of resources he and Hannibal now shared.

Hannibal's voice cut through his circling thoughts, breaking their tail-chasing and bringing him back to the present. "It seems we're learning to value reciprocity in a more fraternal manner."

Will chuckled once, darkly. "I thought I was your prodigal _son_."

Hannibal smiled, but the smile failed to reach his eyes. "And so you are. But, brother or child, parent or sibling, I hope the vicissitudes of our relationship will allow for truce in slumber. We're both sorely in need of rest."

Will unraveled Hannibal's phrasing with a vague sense of annoyance. If anything, the man was _more_ eloquent under stress and sleep deprivation. He nodded. "Yeah. I could sleep. And eat, too—tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," Hannibal agreed—then shuddered, as a rash of goosebumps raced along his downy arms and chest. The room was cool, but not cold enough to inspire shivering.

He eyed the other man, forehead wrinkling. "Are you okay? I mean, aside from the obvious."

Hannibal looked up, his gaze unfocused. "Unfortunately, concussions have many irritating side effects. I'm afraid it _is_ the obvious."

Will stilled as the memory of the beach rushed back to him. "You had a seizure earlier, after I dragged us out of the water. I … I didn't think about it again until just now."

Hannibal blinked. "Not a seizure. Concussive convulsion." He paused. "That would've been helpful information to have earlier, Will."

Will opened his mouth—whether in apology or protest, he wasn't sure. Before he could speak, Hannibal held up his hand. "It's all right. Stress makes us forget, sometimes. All I can do now is rest."

Another shiver wracked Hannibal's body, and Will moved toward him. A pang of guilt washed over him at the sight, making his empty stomach roll. "If you're sleeping, I'm staying. You need someone to make sure you don't hurt yourself if you have another seiz—convulsion."

Hannibal's lips lifted in a grimace. "Ah, yes. Swallowing one's own tongue. An undignified way to kick the bucket. You have a point." His eyes caught and held Will's gaze. "But I would never ask you to leave me. You should know that."

Will swallowed. He wasn't sure he could process the gravity of those words right now. He stepped around them instead. "Just—get in bed, okay? Get warm. I'm going to get some water. I'll be right back."

Without waiting for a response, he went quickly to the kitchen. He grabbed two mugs from one of the glass-inlaid cupboards above the sink and held them under the tap. Will leaned his forehead against the cool wood of the cupboard. His mind was too full of thoughts, bewildering and strange-tasting.

He knew Hannibal's wants and needs were two very different—and very carefully trained—animals, and Will wasn't entirely sure which animal was hunting him, if either. But the word _never,_ spoken in conjunction with _leave_ , and qualified by _me_ , was almost too close to the idea of _need_ for his broken brain to process. It was an uncharacteristically beseeching request from Hannibal Lecter, a man who generally took what he wanted—whether or not he asked first.

This night was quickly becoming a mess, Will thought to himself. All they needed now was for the FBI to come barging through the door in the middle of the night. Which, technically, it already was.

He yawned. His eyelids drooped as he knuckled off the tap and shuffled back to the master bedroom. He supposed there was a second bedroom somewhere in the house, but he'd already offered to stay, and Hannibal had said he didn't want Will to leave. There was nothing else to do but slide into bed next to Hannibal.

In his absence, the other man had spread out along the far corner of the king-sized bed. He lay on his back with his hands folded across his chest, like a dead king on display for a funeral procession. Hannibal's eyes remained closed as Will set the mugs on the nightstand.

He unbuckled his belt and stepped out of the pants he'd borrowed—which, being Hannibal's, were two sizes too big for him—and pulled the green argyle cardigan (also borrowed) over his head, leaving on a soft cotton t-shirt and his boxer briefs. He crept into the space between the pillow and the top of the coverlet—quietly, so as not to disturb the other man.

The mattress dipped with his weight; it was soft as a cloud. In his current state of exhaustion, however, Will was fairly sure that even a hospital room chair would've felt glorious. (He'd slept fine when he'd watched over Abigail—not that the thought was anywhere near calming.)

Hannibal made a small noise as Will slouched against the plump down pillow. He fidgeted with the small tassels on the coverlet, feeling suddenly ambiguous about whether or not to lie back. His gaze lifted to the window, where one side of the stone patio was visible through the glass. A patch of moonlight illuminated the scrubbed, pinkish remnants of what was likely Hannibal's blood, or Will's, or Dolarhyde's—or all three of them.

"Go to sleep, Will." Hannibal's voice drifted up beside him, the drowsy syllables suspended in the cool bedroom air like beads of dew along a single, gossamer thread. With a quiet exhale, he turned his bandaged head away from Will, and pulled down the corner of the coverlet.

Not an invitation, then. A command.

He followed Hannibal's lead, easing under the blanket and the remarkably soft sheets, and he was instantly lulled by the warmth radiating from Hannibal's body. It stupefied him. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slipped into bed next to someone—anyone—like this, completely spent and willing to surrender to sleep.

Will settled against the creamy pillow, shifting onto his side with his back toward Hannibal to avoid pressure on his punctured shoulder and face. He closed his eyes. If he was lucky, his nightmares (which so often followed him into sleep like a pack of rabid dogs) would remain at bay for a few hours.

He supposed that falling asleep next to Hannibal could've been an erotic experience rather than a comforting one, given the often confusing nature of their relationship. However, as his deepening breaths matched Hannibal's steady ones, exhale for exhale, he was suffused with an overwhelming crush of calm, of tranquility—of _belonging_.

Morning light had a way of painting things in a different color, though. That was the way it always went for Will, and he had no doubt that this, too, would be reflected in a different hue come dawn.

The thought did not unsettle him, however, as he gave himself over to exhaustion and slid into the dark and boundless tides of sleep.

 

___

 

When Will's eyes opened again, it was late morning. Weak sunlight filtered through the sheer draperies that had been drawn across the window during his sleep, blocking out his view of the recently cleaned terrace.

_Hannibal._

As soon as his brain registered where—and with whom—he'd fallen asleep the previous night, it was as if all of his other senses instantly awakened. Pain bloomed in full, exquisite throbs along his mangled shoulder and sewn-up cheek. Every muscle in his body ached, as though he'd spent the evening strapped on a medieval torture device instead of in a plush bed.

Will groaned, squeezing his eyes shut and wishing for the ability to fold the pain back inside of himself, like a reverse jack-in-the-box.

But curiosity got the better of him, and he blinked, turning to look for Hannibal. The swelling on the side of his face had abated and he could see, with both eyes, that the other side of the bed was empty. And cool, as he discovered when he stretched out his hand. Hannibal must've gotten up earlier, while Will was wallowing in the deep slumber of the traumatically injured.

Still, they were alive. They'd made it through the first night.

His nose detected the faint scents of cooking oil and fried meat as his bladder clamored for attention alongside his other bodily discomforts. Was Hannibal _cooking_? He eased himself upright in puzzled delight.

As he swung his feet onto the floor, Will saw that the four-poster bed's high-profile footboard would've made it impossible for Hannibal to get out without climbing over his body. The thought made him chuckle. He half-suspected that Hannibal had claimed the far side of the bed on purpose.

A pair of navy blue fleece jogging bottoms had been laid out for him across the wingback chair in the corner of the room. Will stepped into them, sliding the soft fabric to his hips. At least these had a drawstring waist he could cinch to fit his narrower frame. He was starting to feel a little like a charity case, decked out in Hannibal's secondhand clothes. Still, this was better than getting back into his bloodstained, salt-streaked clothing from yesterday. That outfit was far from salvageable.

He stopped by the bathroom on his way to the kitchen to relieve himself. Afterward, he gingerly ran some cold water over his face, avoiding the stitches in his right cheek—which were throbbing like hell, regardless. He peered hopefully inside the medicine cabinet for some painkillers and was surprised to find none. Maybe there was something in the first aid kit. He'd have to ask Hannibal.

As he rounded the doorway to the kitchen, Will's eyes were greeted by an industrious sight: Hannibal, with a fresh dressing around his skull and a dishtowel slung over his shoulder, wiping off a carving knife with a rag. He was standing at the kitchen island, surrounded by a stovetop full of pots and pans and a shiny array of cooking utensils, as well as several bottles and bags that looked like they'd come from a Quick-E-Mart. And a fresh carton of eggs.

He stared at Hannibal, incredulous. A dozen questions swarmed inside his brain. He settled on the most immediate. "Where'd you get all this? Did you _go_ somewhere?"

Hannibal looked up, flashing a brief smile before turning his attention back to the stove. "Good morning, Will."

He set down the knife and picked up the pair of tongs to his right. A hint of stiffness accompanied the movement—pain from his abdominal wound marring Hannibal's usual grace. However, Will knew that pain wouldn't prevent him from indulging in his culinary passions, after having been denied them for the past three years. Some things were more important to Hannibal than health, even as a doctor.

"We're two for two today," Hannibal said. "Still alive."

Silver stubble dotted the man's jawline, and his prison-chopped hair was parted in a short, messy sweep. He was dressed in a loose, teal pullover rolled up to his elbows. Hannibal was usually the perfect picture of put-togetherness, even when in prison, but now he looked relaxed. Rougher. Almost _animalistic_. Will found he … didn't mind.

"Nothing to reinvigorate the spirit like beating death at his own game." Hannibal flipped a patty of bacon inside the frying pan. It sizzled against the stainless steel surface.

Will sighed, scrubbing his face as he padded over to the island. He pulled out one of the leather-topped stools and plunked down on it. The movement jarred his shoulder, sending a fresh wave of pain through the right half of his body.

"Dammit."

"Careful, Will," Hannibal warned.

"Yeah. I don't feel terribly _alive_ right now, to tell you the truth. More like I've been put through a meat grinder."

Hannibal shot him an amused look. "An extreme comparison. But then, pain is relative to each person. The stitches will hold you together for now."

"What about you?" He asked as his eyes drifted to Hannibal's midsection, where the fabric of the cardigan bulged over the thick gauze taped to his abdomen. If he'd been in Hannibal's place, he doubted he'd already be up and moving around.

"Breathing fresh air. Feeling the height of the rooms. Finding my way back into a kitchen. Delight is also relative, and _this_ —" Hannibal paused to peek under the lid of a pan "—is a delightful morning, despite the physical inconveniences. But as to your other question, there's a fueling station two miles down the road. Basic provisions only, but enough for a decent breakfast. The car needed gas, as it was."

The hairs on the back of Will's neck prickled as a dozen _what-ifs_ rose inside his head, clamoring for attention. They hadn't been fugitives for more than twenty-four hours, and Hannibal was already tempting fate by showing himself in public. Being reckless, like in Florence. He could almost _hear_ the SWAT forces shuffling into formation around the perimeter of the house.

"Are you insane?" Will asked, his voice rising. "Your face— _our_ faces—are already all over the news and TV monitors at every gas station up and down the entire Eastern seaboard! And on top of that, since when do doctors recommend driving with a concussion?"

Hannibal glanced sideways at Will and sighed. "What did I tell you about relaxing? Your body isn't going to heal if you keep holding this much stress inside yourself."

"Just explain. So I know whether to expect federal agents at the front door in the next five minutes."

"You're like a dog with an old bone, Will." Hannibal blew a stray lock of hair away from his forehead as he hovered stiffly between the stove and the counter, his hands flitting over cookware and cutlery. "You've already chewed off most of your worry, and now you're trying to suck panic from the marrow. You should think about what's going _right_ , instead of what could go _wrong_. Imagine yourself with a clear path ahead of you. A fresh outlook. You'll feel much more positive about everything that's happening to you."

"That's easy for you to say," Will scoffed. " _Your_ situation's improved dramatically. Mine, not so much."

Hannibal whisked a small bowl of cream-colored egg whites, eyebrows raised like a frustrated parent determined to be patient.

"I wouldn't have gone out so soon unless it was necessary. _This_ —" he gestured at the culinary commotion spread around him, "—was necessary. It's been more than three years since I enjoyed myself inside a kitchen." He paused. "I imagine you missed the river deeply while you were under Chilton's care. So you can understand the feeling that comes from being liberated to indulge in one's favorite hobbies again."

Will shrugged noncommittally. He could see Hannibal's point. But it was still a risk, until they knew who and what was coming at them from the outside.

"Besides," Hannibal continued, swirling a wooden spoon into a pot of bubbling water, "As you pointed out before we went to sleep, we're in need of sustenance." He scooped the whipped egg whites from the ramekin into the pot and covered it quickly.

"Also, never underestimate the ability of a hat and sunglasses to fool even the most observant fuel attendant. Or an accurate imitation of a New Jersey accent." Hannibal winked. "That one's only for special occasions."

Will smirked. "I thought we'd already seen enough of each other's disguises."

Hannibal opened the door of the microwave behind him, and turned back with a styrofoam cup in his hand. He nudged the steaming cup of coffee across the counter to Will with an apologetic smile. "A rough face and tangled hair makes the charade more convincing, in certain situations. Apologies for the machine coffee. They were out of beans."

Disregarding Hannibal's non-answer to his non-question, Will took the offered beverage and raised the cup to his mouth, tipping his head enough so that the liquid wouldn't contaminate the wounded side of his face. He sipped delicately, anticipating a burned lip, but the drink had been reheated to the perfect temperature and infused with just the right amount of cream. It was some faux gourmet roast that smelled better than it tasted, but the hint of hazelnut dulled the unsavory sharpness of drip coffee and added an appreciative spark of flavor. Leave it to Hannibal to make gas station coffee bearable.

"Okay," he said, swallowing. "So, no one recognized you, you didn't black out while driving, and neither of us are dying of blood poisoning yet. I guess that's not a bad way to start the morning, all things considered." He took another sip, grateful for the instant caffeine rush. His body and brain were both lagging and needed something to pick them back up, however small. "Got any painkillers, by the way?"

"It's good to hear you're appreciating the little things," Hannibal chuckled. "Breakfast is almost ready. After you have some food in your stomach, take these." He pushed two white oval tablets the size of grapes across the counter to him. "And these." Another two tablets, these ones rounder and smaller than the first two. "They'll prevent infection and help manage the pain. And use antiseptic rinse after you eat or drink anything other than water. There's some under the bathroom sink."

Will's stomach rumbled at the delectable smells chasing one another around the kitchen—and just like that, his irritation vanished—replaced by the same feeling of comfort as when Hannibal had invited him to share his bed the previous night. He wasn't going to ask how Hannibal had current prescription antibiotics and opioids stashed away inside a barely used bolt hole. Still, he found that the thought of _not_ dying from infection actually did lift his spirits.

"This is…"

Hannibal fixed his eyes on Will, a small saucepan suspended in his hand. "Is what?"

Will shook his head. "I don't think I've ever been the object of such lavish morning-after attentions." The words came out sounding more sarcastic than he'd intended.

Hannibal's eyebrow quirked as he set the saucepan on a burner and used the tongs to flip over a second slab of meat.

"Molly wasn't a welcoming companion in the mornings?"

At the mentioned of his wife's name, a small weight dropped into the hollow of Will's stomach. Strangely, it didn't unseat him the way he expected it to—the way it _should_ have.

"She—no. I mean—" he stammered, unsure how to explain just how different waking up next to Molly was from being roused by Hannibal's culinary seductions and unpredictable designs. He sighed. "Yes, she was. But she didn't really do it much. Cooking, I mean. She didn't really enjoy it."

Hannibal's eyebrows jumped at Will's words, but he remained silent, keeping his thoughts on that piece of information to himself. He lifted the lid on the egg pot and peeked inside.

"I taught her how to make protein scramble for the dogs, though," he offered, and his stomach gave a torrid rumble, mocking his hunger. "So she could feed them if I was away. Except … she didn't, really. Not when I was looking for Dolarhyde."

"Do you realize that everything you've said about Molly has been in the past tense?"

Will looked up, startled. Hannibal removed the lid from the pot, keeping his eyes carefully trained on the stove. Steam curled upward in the space between them as the other man's slim fingers reached for a slotted wooden spoon on the counter. Will tracked the movement, marveling at the fluid grace with which Hannibal's hands worked a kitchen. He wondered, briefly, what those hands might feel like on his body. He dismissed the thought immediately.

"It almost sounds like you consider her to be someone from a former life."

_Former life._ Was that how he actually felt about them—about Molly, Walt, and the dogs—after barely one month away from home, and only one full day back in Hannibal's company?

He missed the dogs; that was certain. Thinking about them brought a deep ache to the center of his chest and filled him with a longing for home, for the river and the woods, and for the quiet breath of sleeping animals. However, his brain felt oddly empty when he tried to recall the emotion for what it felt like to be away from Molly.

"Every creature requires proper nourishment," Hannibal said, diffusing Will's train of thought before it could pick up any more speed. "Besides, if you've decided to remain on the lam, it would be better to avoid keeling over from hunger while circumventing the law."

Hannibal spooned a drizzle of something gold and creamy over the meat patties on Will's plate. Next to the patties sat two poached eggs garnished with pepper, spices, and soft ivory flakes of cheese. An abundant serving of mixed berries, drenched in a fragrant red sauce and nestled by an oatmeal scone, completed the dish. Hannibal handed the plate to Will with a flourish.

"A simple but nourishing mix of lean protein, carbohydrates, and some extra sweetness for taste and needed calories. I would've roasted some asparagus for the eggs, but the station was also regrettably lacking in fresh vegetables."

Will took the tastefully assembled dish and placed it on the countertop in front of him. He surveyed the food with an anticipation bordering on _greed_. He couldn't remember ever feeling so hungry.

"Is there any point in asking _who_ I think we're about to eat?" He absently caressed the handle of his fork with his thumb.

Hannibal grinned. "Waste not, want not. Especially when the meat lands right in your lap."

Apparently Hannibal had been busier with Dolarhyde's carcass than Will had imagined during the nearly five hours he'd spent driving back and forth from Baltimore. But then, he knew Hannibal thought it a vulgar crime to let good meat go to waste.

"Please, Will—eat. You're starving."

Upon Hannibal's invitation, Will dove into the meal in front of him with a ferocity he hadn't experienced since … well, since attacking Dolarhyde yesterday evening. As he ate of the beast he and Hannibal had brought down together, Hannibal carefully scooped eggs, fruit, and fried meat onto the dish in his own hand, creating an aesthetically pleasing masterpiece of simple breakfast foods within the circle of fine china.

Will noticed that the delicate metallic gold of the plate rims matched the shimmering gold fabric of the tapestry in the master bedroom almost perfectly. The same color echoed in the thick trail of honey and butter topping the sizzling slices of human flesh that layered his plate.

Maybe gold was their color, then. Last night it had been blood, black in the moonlight. But today, the sun was peeking through the autumn clouds, and golden honey topped their hard-won bacon. _Nothing gold can stay_ —wasn't that the saying?

Will set down his fork. "How long do we have here?" he asked quietly. "Jack's bound to find out about this place soon."

Hannibal popped a honey-glazed slice of bacon into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "Enough time, at least, to regain our strength. When necessity compels, we'll go. The house's title is listed under a different name. We're secluded here. No street traffic, and no nearby neighbors. You and I are the proverbial needles in Jack's haystack."

"You mean a _fake_ name." He took another sip of his coffee, wincing as he forgot to keep the warm liquid away from his cheek.

"Yes." Hannibal paused, mirroring Will's action with his own cup. "Even the utilities are funded by a separate account. It's a simple way of keeping private the things I wish to remain that way."

"And no one else knows about this house? Colleagues, patients—anyone at the Bureau?"

"Just Miriam Lass. Although I went to great lengths to keep her disoriented. She had little idea _who_ she was most of the time, much less where she was."

"And … Abigail?" Will paused, the name hovering on his lips like a ruined prayer.

"Yes," Hannibal said, not meeting his eyes. "And Abigail." He stabbed his fork into the remaining hunk of bacon on his plate and sliced cleanly across its center.

He watched Hannibal lift the sliver of meat to his mouth, where it disappeared into a tempest of gnashing teeth.

He suddenly felt less hungry.

 

___

 

The next days unwound in a haze of anxious healing and necessary industry. Hannibal rested, never more than a room away from Will, as his head and stomach injuries presented a rotating kaleidoscope of savage colors and sensations. The threats of infection and sepsis hovered, then dwindled, and then disappeared. Miraculously, his digestive system seemed hardly worse for the bullet's wear—but then, his guts had always been hardier than most other people's.

He continued to prepare more choice cuts from Francis' frozen body, keeping Will well-fed and supplying both of them with the energy their bodies needed to recover. It was, Hannibal thought, an almost  _pastoral_  existence. However, he knew the idyll of the moment wouldn't linger. Their time was borrowed, as was the temporary peace between them. Soon, they would need to follow their fresh path forward, to the next unknown. 

There were certain variables Hannibal knew he could control; others, he could predict; and still others, he would have to relinquish to chance—which had, so far, been generous with them. However, there were also two sides to every coin. The one Will had sent flying when he'd pushed them from the bluff was in the act of obeying gravity. It, too, would fall.

Despite his shoulder injury, Will had retained more mobility than Hannibal in the days following their coffin birth from the sea. While Hannibal took care of their culinary needs and tied up the loose ends left over from his incarceration, Will took up work on the police cruiser. He unhooked the strobe rack from the roof, taped plastic over the broken window, and repainted the outside an insipid charcoal gray. Afterward, he'd affixed a new pair of license plates (which Hannibal had provided from his emergency stores) to the front and back. Hannibal had inspected his work with a proud smile. Will was clearing a path for himself—for both of them. His optimism was returning.

Energy and strength ebbed back into their damaged bodies as time and the antibiotics did their work. Will's body repaired itself with astonishing speed, Hannibal observed. Each time he changed the dressing on his shoulder or shone a flashlight inside his mouth, searching for the telltale signs of infection, Hannibal was pleased to see that his doctor's work was met with greater improvement. Shiny pink skin had begun to form over the gouge in Will's shoulder. And the gash in his face—from which Hannibal had removed the sutures three days ago—was looking less and less like something from Mary Shelley's celebrated literary creation.

The headaches, disorientation, and blurred vision from Hannibal's concussion had persisted for two more days after their fall, and then stopped abruptly—a transition he welcomed, as it kept Will from fussing every time Hannibal so much as coughed. It also allowed him to focus on other, more important things, without being constantly trapped in the looming shadow of cognitive dysfunction.

After the headaches faded, Hannibal took the modified cruiser on short supply runs—more food (from a proper grocery this time), burner cellphones, clothes for Will that fit. If the more tailored styles and updated fashions Hannibal chose didn't agree with Will's aesthetic, he hadn't complained about it.

To the contrary, the other man seemed to take simple pleasure in poring over the goods Hannibal brought back with him from the outside world. It kept his inevitable cabin fever at bay and gave him something to look forward to. Meanwhile, Hannibal derived a small amount of selfish pleasure from the knowledge that _his_ was the only number in Will's prepaid phone. It seemed that he was still too spooked by the invisible specters of Jack Crawford, the FBI, and his old cell in the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane to attempt extraneous human interaction.   

This suited Hannibal just fine.

However, the limbo in which they languished out of strategic and medical necessity had the curious effect of making their conversation less of a game of cat-and-mouse, and more of a way to fill time and space, as they navigated their new existence. It also reacclimatized their daily schedules. Hannibal was naturally predisposed to late nights and early wakings. Although he continued to rise each morning before Will, his nighttime routine had become sharply abbreviated as it fell more in line with the other man's sleep schedule.

Hannibal also knew the ramifications of a grade-three concussion, and he was aware that his body and brain needed more rest than his nocturnal predilections normally allowed. It was something of a refractory period for them both, Hannibal mused. They were hovering in the shade between twilight and true night—their shadows shifting, changing, and constantly revealing new angles of question and perception. Still, they were well met in the gloom.

In the black well of Will's mind, a hive was gathering strength. Building to a swarm. Hannibal could feel the vibrations; could smell the frenetic skittering of pollen-sticky legs and detect the faint, warring drone of a thousand tiny wings.

A hum was building between them, as well—one that pulsed and ebbed with fluctuating pitch and intensity the longer it remained unspoken. It felt, to Hannibal, like the frenzied throb of an artery beneath the point of a blade, or the portentous clubbing of far-off drums. It thrummed within his blood, tapping a deep staccato inside his veins like a second pulse.

If Will heard it too, he gave no indication.

Each night, Hannibal invited Will to sleep beside him, and each night, he stayed. Neither of them explained their reasons; there was no need. And each morning, Hannibal woke to the sight of Will's cotton-clad back and the sublime odor of his warm, unconscious flesh, separated from his own by mere inches.

However, since clawing their way up from the bottom of the bluff, Will _looked_ at Hannibal far more often than he touched him, his eyes telling a story his body would not. He seemed to be studying Hannibal. _Assessing_ him. Then again, Will's eyes were always hungry, no matter what he was thinking. It was a particular trait of his physiology that mirrored Hannibal's own—one he admired for that very reason.

On the ninth night of the ninth day they woke up alive, Hannibal closed his book (a 1732 edition of Pulci's _Morgante Maggiore_ with woodblock illustrations—a purely nostalgic review from his university years) and stretched against the back of the cowhide settee. The movement was accompanied by a familiar, but less ferocious, spike of pain in his abdomen. The holes from Francis' bullet had closed over, leaving two wine-colored bumps of scar tissue to mark its entry and exit.

This night, Hannibal sensed something different in the atmosphere. The air seemed to crackle with ionic anticipation, as if the house was a creature in hiding, holding its breath under the moon's silver eye.

Something had changed in the set of Will's posture, too. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor next to the piano—his usual spot in the evenings—bent over an old Black Forest cuckoo clock he'd found in the storage room in the cellar. He'd been tinkering with it for the past two days, unsuccessfully trying to repair it.

The clock's guts were spread on the floor around him—tiny wheels and springs, and even a pair of cast-iron pinecone weights. Nearby, the low flames of the forgotten fire licked at the brittle shards of wood in the grate, offering sparse heat. Will's jaw was a tight knot of muscle that mirrored the tense line of his shoulders. Hannibal sometimes wondered at his fascination with putting things back together. He was infinitely better at tearing them apart—although Hannibal doubted that anyone had ever told him so.

"It's getting late," Hannibal said, pushing up from the settee. "I'm going to bed. See you there, Will."

The _congé_ , while normal in the realm of what had become his and Will's nightly routine, still held the trace of intimacy in its implications. Normally, their goodnights were met with a nod or a hum of affirmation from the other, but tonight the words seemed not to reach Will at all.

Hannibal stalled, running his finger along the spine of his book as he waited for acknowledgement. The other man continued to peer down at the scattered parts of the disassembled timepiece in seeming concentration.

Hannibal knew he'd lingered a beat too long. _Telling_ , his inner voice admonished. Tossing his book on the cowhide cushion, he turned on his heel and stalked out of the room.

Will's presence, whether immediate or promised, was _not_ a requirement for sleep, he told himself. The thought irritated him, and he didn't know why—which annoyed him even more. Sleeping together was merely a courtesy he afforded Will, as the second bedroom had acquired a draft in Hannibal's absence from the house. And since Will had been so insistent on monitoring Hannibal's post-concussive progress, he'd agreed to humor him. It seemed his insistence had dissipated over the last couple of days, however. And with the mess Will had made of the old Deutsche clock, he was likely to be up half the night sorting out the intricacies of its dysfunction. It seemed Hannibal would be going to bed alone.

He washed his face and brushed his teeth, and changed into his pajama bottoms. He climbed into the four-poster bed and pulled the heavy Berber cover up to his chest. Beyond the bedroom, the house was encased in perfect silence.

As he listened to his own breathing, Hannibal imagined the gears and wheels turning in Will's head as he puzzled over the crippled timepiece he'd rescued from the basement. _People, dogs, boat engines, and now more clocks_ , he thought _._ This was Will, at his most socially endearing—the eternal salvager. Always struggling to put the pieces back together.

Hannibal closed his eyes.

He was awakened by the dipping of the mattress and a sudden radiation of warmth against his left side. _Will._ Hannibal kept his eyes closed, waiting for the familiar turn of the other man's body as he settled into bed with his back to him. But Will didn't move. And he didn't lie down.

Hannibal's eyes slid open. Through the gloom, he saw Will perched on the edge of the bed, half-turned toward him, one lean-muscled leg tucked under his briefs-clad thigh. His shoulders were rigid under his cotton t-shirt.

A half-dozen questions swirled through Hannibal's mind. He settled on the most obvious. "Are you coming to bed?"

Will gave a low, stilted laugh. " _Why_ , exactly, do you want me here?"

Hannibal considered the query as his body shook off the remnants of its truncated rest. He cleared his throat. "Well, for better or for worse, sleeping in the same bed has become a routine for us. Routines and habits show us the things that are most important in daily life. They show us who we are. And _what_ we are."

Will was silent, unmoving as he listened.

"You haven't had a nightmare in over a week," Hannibal pointed out. "Which is significant, considering the physical and mental trauma you've recently experienced."

"So what are we doing, then? What's this _habit_ supposed to show?" The other man's voice was unusually calm—almost threatening. Hannibal sensed an impending emotional upheaval. Quietly, he slid his right arm up and underneath his pillow.

"What matters is your _perception_ of what we are." Hannibal turned his head against the pillow to look him in the eye. "If my interpretation of our friendship is different from your interpretation, or from anyone else's, that isn't a fault. Only a difference in perception."

"So we're _friends_ , then? Like you and Bedelia were friends. Or maybe not quite." The sarcasm in Will's voice was thick and acrid. Hannibal could smell it leaking from his body in short, sour bursts: jealousy. He tucked the scent away in a special box in his mental filing cabinet. It had potential for later use.

"If you want us to be," he replied.

Will moved with a tentative, deer-like grace—almost as though he were being pulled. He twisted onto the mattress, bracing one arm over Hannibal's body as though planting a flag over claimed territory. Hannibal tightened his grip on the seam in the pillowcase. His reflexes were sleep-sluggish, but he knew the other man's were not.

Will moved closer, moving one knee astride Hannibal's hip. He could feel Will's hardness pressing on his belly through the thin fabric of his briefs, and it sent a hot spike of heat straight to his groin.

Hannibal sniffed. There was a sharp, syrupy scent: scotch. Laphroaig, in fact. From the disused liquor cabinet. And underneath that, the dense, heady aroma of _want_ , tempered with an acidic whiff of apprehension. A complex mix, and not at all subtle.

Will's eyelids were heavy; his pupils, dark, as he blinked down at Hannibal.

"We've never been very good at being _friends_." He twisted his hands into the sheet on either side of Hannibal's shoulders, his forearm muscles flexing with the motion. Hannibal could see Will's heartbeat throbbing in the artery along his neck, could feel his heat thrumming closer.

He swallowed. His own pulse was beginning to rise. The drums were growing louder, beating a furious tattoo within his body and inside the spreading warmth in his groin.

"Then _you_  must decide what you want us to be."

"Don't placate me, Hannibal. You decided _for_ me. A long time ago."

Will edged forward. Hannibal's fingers curled around the object hidden in the fabric of the pillowcase—and then Will was right up against his body, and he could feel the feverish warmth of the other man's thighs against his ribcage; the stiffness of his cock against his own.

Will ducked—paused—and then brought his head down, crushing his mouth against Hannibal's in a rough scrape of lips and teeth and scotch-sweet saliva. A rush of liquid heat churned through Hannibal's body at the entirely _new_ sensation of Will's lips against his. He relaxed his hand and moved back against Will's mouth, tilting his head for a better angle. _Prodigal son, indeed._

The heat pooled and rushed in his groin, causing his erection to strain angrily against the fabric of his pajamas. Will's lips were slick and trembling, his body tense and wanting. Hannibal could taste every misgiving, every ferocious impulse, every carefully concealed need in the moist curve of Will's mouth.

He withdrew his arm from the pillow and slid it under the back of Will's t-shirt, splaying his fingers across the smooth, heated skin of his shoulder blade and nudging him down. This was, he thought, a much better alternative to his first impulse.

Will's body sank lower until their chests were almost touching. The curls at the base of his neck were soft, like his tongue. Like his darkened eyes, brimming with alcohol and lust. With startled satisfaction, Hannibal realized that it was the first time Will had initiated physical contact since the night of their fall. He deepened the kiss, running his tongue along Will's and nipping at his lip, provoking a gasp. Hannibal grinned at the sound. Delicious. _Addictive_.  

Will's sudden inhale broke the kiss, and he pulled back enough so that Hannibal could no longer reach his mouth. _More._ The other man's shoulders were trembling with the effort of holding himself upright. Hannibal knew this was a fragile moment. Their pulses were racing, but he needed to ensure that Will was fully present.

"Do you want us like this?"

"Yes," Will breathed, with the barest hint of a pause between the question and the answer.

"Then I must warn you," Hannibal said, low, teasing, "I can't be held responsible for what I'm going to do to you."

Will blinked. The trace of a snarl flickered across his face. His eyes were gleaming. "I accept your irresponsibility," he said, drawing out the syllables like entrails from a butchered animal, "But what if _I_ want to do something to _you_?"

Hannibal fixed the other man's storm-gray eyes in a heated stare. He slid his palm down Will's forearm, brushing the downy hairs there. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, and Hannibal could feel the other man's pulse hammering in his wrist beneath the pad of his thumb. He knew Will was simultaneously exposing and protecting himself, and Hannibal intended to _fully_ exploit both offerings.

Hannibal lifted his head to nose Will's hairline, breathing in the distinctive mixture of pine and sweat and salt air, and Hannibal's own shampoo. It reminded him, with a poignant and sudden sharpness, of Le Touquet on France's Opal Coast. He'd once befriended, bedded, and later broiled a green-eyed stable boy who'd stolen a stickpin and four hundred euros from his wallet while he'd showered off their post-coital sludge. He licked his lips at the memory.

"Show me what you want to do, Will."

Hannibal's lips grazed the scar on Will's forehead. He already had a good idea of what was in his head this time. He placed his hands on either side of the other man's arms and gently guided him down the length of his body. Hannibal raked his fingers through Will's curls as the younger man nudged down the waistband of his pajama bottoms and pulled his cock free of the restraining fabric.

Will moved with an almost animalistic grace, despite his intoxication, as he braced himself between Hannibal's thighs. Hannibal wasn't over-worried about the wound in Will's cheek, since the stitches were already out and the cut had closed. If this was what he wanted, then Hannibal would let him take it.

All traces of Will's initial, doe-like hesitancy faded as he crouched, taking Hannibal into his mouth with a sliding press of lips. It was like being surrounded by a warm sea, or relishing in the hot pulse of freshly spilled blood—glorious, fierce, and _present_.

Will hummed around his cock, wrangling a noise from low in Hannibal's throat. The sound both emboldened and encouraged the other man, urging his inexperienced but effective lips and tongue to explore more freely. Hannibal's hips involuntarily shifted, pushing closer to the hot, humming slide of Will's mouth _. A bocca chiusa. Profondo. More **.**_

Between beats of pleasure, Hannibal tilted his head to watch as Will shoved his free hand into his own briefs, pushing down the fabric with rough and unabashed need. He circled his cock in his fist and pumped it—slowly at first, then gathering speed as he sought more pressure. The knowledge that Will was relaxed enough to pleasure himself while pleasuring Hannibal elated him. Perhaps even moreso than the rough glide of his tongue against his cock.

He felt the edge of his climax drawing nearer as Will's self-ministrations grew jerky and desperate. _Crescendo._ They were close.

Hannibal placed his hands on either side of the other man's head, maneuvering him, and his mouth fell open with a clipped exhale as Will's lips swiveled loosely around the head of his cock and then back down to the base. The sensation sent a swift spike of pleasure through his groin. He thrust up into Will's mouth.

"Like that—" he growled, his nails scraping over Will's back. " _Good_."

Oh yes, he _definitely_ liked Will like this—above and atop and around him, acting and reacting—no longer hovering at a carefully cultured distance. He would see that it was _good_ to touch—good to be close.

Will sucked and dragged his mouth upward, grazing his teeth across Hannibal's sensitive flesh—and then the spring inside him snapped, unleashing a furious whiplash of pleasure through Hannibal's body. His back arched as the neurochemical cocktail coursed through his brain, at once filling him and emptying him.

Will swallowed greedily, drinking him down; and then stilled, pulling off as his own orgasm seized him. He reared up, gasping—hot, stuttering breaths coming from his open, pale throat. They skittered across Hannibal's body, cooling his flesh.

The younger man looked beautiful—almost angelic—with his dark eyelashes pressed against his cheeks and his mouth curled in an _O_ of release; a face transfixed in pleasure. His shoulders shook with the force of it. It was both a prize and a pity, Hannibal thought, that few others saw him this way. But if he had his way, no one else ever would.

Will shuddered, chest heaving, as he braced himself against the bed, spent. His head sagged between his shoulders. He seemed unaware of Hannibal, or even himself, as he rode out the tails of adrenaline and dopamine surging through his bloodstream. Little tremors skated along his thighs and shoulders as the last of his release filtered through his body. Hannibal reached out to trail his fingers down Will's arm, cupping his elbow in his hand.

"Come here."

He nudged Will toward him. The other man sank gratefully against Hannibal's side, like a boat sliding into a harbor after a storm-ravaged journey. Dark strands of hair stuck to Will's forehead, curling against his scarred, pale skin like calligraphy on parchment. He was still breathless. Hot puffs of air brushed the hair on Hannibal's chest with each exhale.

Hannibal adjusted the waistband of his pajama bottoms, tucking his softening cock back inside, and then reached up to stroke his thumb along Will's temple. He looked to the window, to where the waning gibbous moon illuminated the stone patio in silver-white. He recalled the vibrant shine of Will's blood against his skin, his teeth, as he'd charged toward the Dragon. A killing smile, curved in red.

Hannibal pressed his lips to the other man's skin, tasting the sheen of sweat dotting his forehead. "And you say we aren't friends. Will, you surprise me."

Will chuckled. To Hannibal's displeasure, the sound came out wrong. Slightly strained.

"Sometimes I can be surprising," he said.

 

___

 

A soft slice of rare Mid-Atlantic winter sunlight shone between the bedroom drapes, warming Will's face. The light—and his morning erection—pried him from a dreamless sleep. The sheets were bunched around his hips and chest. He breathed in, inhaling the scents of Hannibal's expensive aftershave balm and sex—a combination so foreign and improbable that, for a second, he was sure he was dreaming.

But it hadn't been a dream. _That_ had actually happened.

Will felt the needle of his mind's compass beginning to spin, steering him into a borderless and uncharted ocean. Apparently he'd poured himself one too many fingers of whiskey, because he'd abandoned his clock project to stare at the cogs and springs spread around him on the floor, sipping at his scotch until his brain was humming just enough. Then he'd gone to the bedroom. To Hannibal.

_Relax_ , he told himself quickly, before the tension could entrench itself in his mind. If he was being honest with himself, it hadn't been like he'd feared—not at all. It had been surprisingly … good. Hannibal had even said so. They'd fallen together just as fiercely and intimately in bed as they had into everything else. And if the mess they'd left behind on the sheets was any indication of whether or not they'd both enjoyed it … well.

Besides, the sun was actually shining, against the late-autumn odds. And maybe there'd be something cold and starchy for breakfast to mop up the remains of his whiskey warmth. _Little things._

Still drowsy, Will slid his arm up the ridiculously soft supima cotton, half-hoping to collide with the warmth of a still-sleeping body, and wholly unsurprised when he didn't.

What did surprise him, though, was the clunk of his knuckle against something hard underneath the neighboring pillow. He opened his eyes, curiosity commanding his vision to attention. He tipped Hannibal's pillow with the palm of his hand, lifting it against the four-poster's headboard. A thin, heavy object slid down inside the fabric of the pillowcase, bumping to a stop against the mattress.

Will frowned. He pushed himself to a sitting position and dragged the plump eiderdown pillow into his lap. He stuck his arm into the case, gingerly fishing until his fingers closed around a flat, cold, curved object. His breath caught in his throat as he withdrew his arm and stared at the tool in his hand. Disbelief crashed through him, ice-cold and suffocating as the Atlantic tide.

It was an exact replica. He knew because he'd stared at the silver-sharp crescent of steel for what seemed like an eternity as he'd bled on the floor of Hannibal's kitchen. When he'd blacked out, hand furiously clutching his belly to keep his guts in, he hadn't known if he'd ever wake up again. He was only certain that Abigail _wouldn't_.

Will traced his thumb along the arced blade of the linoleum knife. It was shiny. New. Dangerously sharp. He could've gutted a fish in two seconds with it.

So much for _relaxing_.

He scrambled out of the sheets and off the bed, not bothering to pull on the jogging pants he'd usurped from Hannibal. Clutching the knife, Will stalked down the chilly hallway in his briefs and t-shirt and headed straight for the kitchen, muscles tensing as he rounded the corner. It was empty. Anger roared in his chest, orange and hot. He was _not_ playing this game anymore. Not after what had happened on the cliff. Not after last night.

"Where the _fuck_ are you, Hannibal!" he shouted to the empty house, to the tall glass windows of the main room, as if they could answer. The alcohol from the previous night sloshed dully inside his head, and he leaned against the island counter to steady himself. He suddenly didn't feel so good.

As if on cue, the faint click of the front door sounded from the hallway, followed by the echo of Hannibal's long stride on the hardwood floor. The man himself appeared shortly in the doorway, carrying a paper grocery sack in one arm, his brow furrowed in puzzlement.

"I heard shouting. Were you calling for me?"

Will met Hannibal's eyes with a dark, throbbing fury. A low grind had taken up residence in the back of his skull. Whiskey and old wounds, a Judas kiss. He was _so_ not in the mood for this shit.

"Yes. I _was_ , in fact, calling for you."

Hannibal's gaze combed his hunched frame, lingering on the knife in his right hand. Without a word, he placed the grocery sack on the countertop and peeled off his coat, tossing it over the back of a nearby chair.

Will's anger leapt high inside him, flickering and hot, as Hannibal rolled up his shirtsleeves and began pulling cartons and containers out of the bag.

"So," he said, keeping his voice carefully steady, "You wouldn't ever ask me to _leave_ you, but you've got no qualms about killing me in my sleep? Explain to me how you see that working, exactly."

Hannibal lifted a bottle of Bollinger from the grocery sack and set it on the counter, followed by a small plastic bag filled with sprigs of parsley and another bulging with heavy red tomatoes.

"I'm making a special dinner tonight. You gave something to me last night. I want to give something back to you."

Will stared at the dark green champagne bottle. He laughed weakly as his mind rolled with the insanity of the scenario.

"Are you—you're kidding. Are we _celebrating_ something?"

Hannibal nodded. His eyes remained focused on the groceries spread over the countertop. "As I said. Call it a celebration of life."

"It's the _exact_ same fucking knife, Hannibal." A beat. "It was inside your pillowcase."

Hannibal set down a glass bottle of olive oil. His fingers clenched around the tapered stem as he looked up to meet Will's eyes.

"How did you feel when you found it?"

Will exploded. "Don't—do _not_ fucking psychoanalyze me!" He threw his hands up, slashing at the air with the linoleum knife. "Just. _Stop_. We're _way_ beyond doctor and patient at this point. So stop trying to pretend you're not just—just _pushing_ me!"

Hannibal braced himself against the countertop. He glared back at Will.

"Then what would you like to be? Because it seems you're having trouble deciding. Not friends. Not doctor and patient. Not lovers. But still you crawl into my bed at night, demanding and half-drunk, without even understanding _what_ it is you want!" The words were like venom. Will shrank as they struck his ears, sizzling.

"I thought your self-awareness was growing, Will. It seems I might've overestimated you."

Will swallowed the hardening lump in his throat. "Maybe you did. But I'm not your _pet_ , Hannibal. I don't need to be here with you, playing house. I don't actually need to be _anywhere_ with you."

Hannibal opened his mouth, then closed it. His eyes remained locked with Will's, unblinking. When he did speak again, his voice was rough.

"But you _are_ here. You're _choosing_ to be here. With me."

"Yeah, well, I'm thinking about changing that," he said, folding his arms over his chest. He averted his eyes, glaring at the ash-clogged fireplace, at the twisted driftwood sculpture by the window, at the half-emptied sack of groceries on the counter—anywhere but Hannibal's face, which had morphed into an eerily _wounded_ expression at Will's words. It was identical to the one from that night four years ago. In a different kitchen, with blood running from Hannibal's nose, and his hand on the side of Will's face, caressing his ear, and then—

Will's stomach gave a lurch. He felt as though he might be sick.

"Where will you go, then?" Hannibal's voice was low. Sinister. "Back to Virginia, to Molly and Walter? Back to Jack and the FBI?"

"I'll take my chances on my own," Will muttered, biting back his nausea.

"And when you realize you've only run _back_ to the same people and things you've been running _from_ all along, will you end up wishing you'd chosen differently?"

Will gritted his teeth. "Isn't that what I did with _you?_ Ran away and came back, even though I knew it was the worst possible choice from a—a _laundry list_ of bad choices?" He punched his fist down on the counter, his knuckles white around the handle of the linoleum knife.

Hannibal was the one to look away this time. His eyes were deep pools of blackness; his lips pressed together in a tight line. Will hated that expression, hated Hannibal for looking so _disappointed_.

"I'm the prodigal son, remember?" Will pushed on, fully aware of the sarcasm in his tone and not caring. "Guess I accidentally granted your wish. My filial obligation. Came back broken and begging, but not the _right_ kind of broken." He laughed—a high, bitter sound. "I'm not _sick_ enough for you to play with, and not well enough to stay away. Just like it's always been. Isn't that right, Hannibal?"

Hannibal slammed his palm on the countertop, rattling the bottles and cans from the grocery bag. Will jumped, his bloodstream coursing with sudden adrenaline. He'd pushed too far. Hannibal had lost his patience.

" _Nothing_ you've done is an accident!" Hannibal said, his voice rising on each word. His eyes darkened with anger, engulfing the hurt inside them. "You refuse to accept your actions as your _own_. You blame a brain inflammation, or your sense of responsibility, or morality. Or Jack, or Chilton, or Garrett Jacob Hobbs, or _me._ "

Hannibal was talking very loudly now—very loudly and very fast. His body angled toward Will as if he were preparing to pounce.

Will swallowed. _Fight_ or _flight?_ He already knew Hannibal wasn't the kind of creature who took wing.

"When you pushed us from the cliff, you did it without seeing the bottom. Without a second thought. You didn't look to anything or any _one_ else to make that choice for you—not even me."

Hannibal rounded the island, his movements feline, minacious—like those of a tiger, or a lynx. From the corner of his eye, Will caught Hannibal's reflection in the beveled mirror hanging in the hallway outside the kitchen. His rigid, muscled back receded in the glass as he moved closer.

"That was _instinct_ driving you. Your instincts show the _truth_ of who you are."

Will edged back against the counter, his body tensing as Hannibal drew nearer. The invisible thread that connected them shrank, pulling them dangerously close.

"You may not understand what _we_ are. But you need to understand what _you_ are, before you can embrace your nature. This is your greatest hurdle, Will. It can also be your greatest triumph. This is what I've been trying to show you—to help you _see_ —from the beginning."

"I don't want you to _show_ me anything!" Will snarled, tightening his fingers around the knife. Hannibal's eyes flickered momentarily to his hand, and then back to his face. They were gleaming.

Will lifted his arm. In the same moment, Hannibal swooped around to catch his wrist in his hand. He slammed it against the counter with a crack that loosened his fingers and tore a cry of pain from his lips. The stitches in Will's shoulder stretched as his arm twisted in Hannibal's grasp.

The knife clattered to the floor as he raised his other arm to strike—but Hannibal was already there, pushing his hips against Will's and crushing him back against the counter. Will gasped as the hard length of Hannibal's cock pressed against his bare thigh, and the tendons in his wrist screamed as Hannibal twisted, grinding his joints against the tile.

Then Hannibal closed the remaining space between them, disarming Will of his last weapon.

His mouth was rough and wet and angry as his teeth seized Will's bottom lip and sucked— _hard_. Will was nearly crushed by the wave of heat that slammed through his body like a bolt from a taser, shooting straight to his groin. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he shouldn't be this turned on, given the explicit imbalance of the scenario. However, his animal brain—which had taken over the engines of his reflexes—didn't care.

Hannibal's other hand grasped at Will's uninjured clavicle, splaying his fingers over the bones in a harsh caress. He ground deeper against him, pushing him back against the island. The edge of the counter cut sharply into his back, and he gasped in pain. At the sound, Hannibal's tongue flicked against the scar on Will's cheek, licking at the freshly closed wound.

He hissed and twisted sideways. His elbow upended the grocery bag, sending the remaining contents toppling to the floor. Glass jars crashed onto the slate tile and shattered. Hannibal clasped Will's shoulder blade with a growl, twisting him back. Disturbed by the movement, the champagne bottle tipped and rolled heavily off the counter, sending a spray of foam and glass shards across Will's bare calves as it hit the floor.

And then his hands found Hannibal's chest and he was half-pulling, half-pushing—away from Hannibal or toward, he couldn't tell—but kissing him back, kissing him _hard_ , lips hot and hungry as they'd been the night before. Hannibal's hips ground against his, and his fingers squeezed along his clavicle, seemingly undecided whether to stroke his flesh or to snap the delicate bones underneath.

Will's erection stiffened painfully inside his briefs as Hannibal shoved his thigh between his legs, spreading them roughly. He was vaguely aware of a pool of liquid gathering around his feet—alcohol and olive oil and who-knew-what-else from the upturned grocery bag.

Then Hannibal's hand snaked down, scraping along his ribs, to cup his stiff cock and tightening balls. Will's body jolted as he realized it was the first time Hannibal had touched him. His focus instantly sharpened to the hot points of contact between Hannibal's palm and his groin, shutting out everything else.

An involuntary moan escaped his lips as Hannibal broke the kiss, pulling away—but only an inch. Hot breath grazed his cheek as Hannibal's eyes seized his and held them—accusing, adoring, _wanting_. His face was flushed; his naturally dark lips were swollen and red. He moved his hand from Will's wrist to his own belt as he twisted his knee between Will's shaking thighs, prying them farther apart.

"I want to _show_ you," Hannibal said, between breaths. "I want to _help_ you. But—" Hannibal unzipped his own trousers, simultaneously brushing at the waistband of Will's briefs with his knuckles. He clutched Hannibal's sides, his limbs weak. He felt as though he'd been transported back to the tumultuous Atlantic. He was sinking, _drowning;_ in over his head. Liquid salt and blood inflated his lungs, suffocating him.

"—but what?" Will's voice was a choked whisper. He couldn't keep himself steady—couldn't keep still. His brain was buzzing, reeling, starved of oxygen.

"But you have to _let_ me," Hannibal said, and before Will knew what was happening, the other man's lips were on his neck and his hand was inside his briefs, groping his erection. Hannibal's mouth on his skin was unexpectedly, _frighteningly_ tender. His hand dragged up the length of Will's cock, hard and insistent—a stark contrast to the delicate press of his mouth.

" _You_ —ahh—" he stuttered, desire and trepidation drumming a heady rhythm within and around him. His head swam with the thickness of it. He closed his eyes and slid his hands down Hannibal's arms to overlap the long, nimble fingers that nudged at his waistband. He helped Hannibal shove the fabric down over his thighs and backside, as the other man lifted his head to suck at Will's lips. His fingertips circled around his waist, anchoring him.

"Will you let me help you, Will?" Hannibal breathed against his mouth, the words more air than sound, as he pushed down the waistband of his own underwear, freeing his straining erection.

_"Y—yes,"_ Will answered. It was the second time in less than twelve hours he'd done so. Time seemed to both speed up and stand still as Hannibal's hands left his hips and he bent down, swiping at something on the floor.

"Good. Then we'll have to improvise."

He straightened up, fingers dripping with a viscous, pale green liquid. Will's mouth dropped as Hannibal swept his hand around to his backside. He eased his fingers unceremoniously between Will's thighs and rubbed, spreading the silky olive oil in a firm and generous circle around his entrance.

_Now?—like_ this? _Oh yes—like this._ Will tried to speak, but every word died in his throat before it could reach his lips. Between them, the air was humid and sharp and full of honeyed heat—exhilarating. Hypnotizing. Terrifying.

Hannibal withdrew his fingers to coat his own cock with the remains of the oil, leaving Will with a wet, uncomfortable sensation between his legs. As if in afterthought, he wiped a smear of the makeshift lube onto Will's stiff cock with a twist of his palm.

Then, without warning, Hannibal's hand shot to his hip, fingers slick as he turned him around to face the island. The cold tile of the countertop dug into the scar across his abdomen, curving it into a tighter smile. His feet nearly slipped in the puddle of champagne and oil that surrounded them like a small ocean.

"Since you're already relaxed, I hope you don't mind if we skip the formalities."

The words shot a thrill of apprehension down Will's spine. He braced himself against the counter, stomach weak and elbows shaking. Behind him, he could feel Hannibal taking his own cock in his hand, guiding the tip of it against his entrance.

One part of Will's testosterone-flooded brain knew that this was actually, _definitively_ about to happen—and didn't believe it. The other part—the part that had forced his arms around Hannibal and toppled them off the bluff—told him to stop thinking so goddamn much and just _let it happen_.

The animal side of Will's brain won out. His thoughts shut down as his awareness shrank to the smoldering grind of pain inside his belly where Hannibal's cock was slowly breaching him. It was a foreign, lawless, and wholly uncontrollable sensation that intensified as Hannibal sank deeper inside him, groaning low. His body sharpened at the sound, and he shifted his legs wider. Then, suddenly, Hannibal was _all_ the way inside him—(and oh God, it _hurt_ )—and then, _then_ , he began to move.

It felt like being burned, at first. Like some acidic chemical was licking at his flesh from the inside, threatening to dissolve him. Moisture welled in Will's eyes as he inhaled raggedly, gritting his teeth against the pain. The hard lip of the counter was cutting into his stomach and his knees felt like they might buckle at any moment. If he hadn't been wedged between Hannibal's body and the island, he was certain he would've crumpled to the floor.

Hannibal must have sensed his discomfort, because he uncurled his hand from Will's hipbone and snugged it around Will's chest, using his arm to support him.

"You like us like this," Hannibal breathed into his ear, the ragged words less of a question than a statement. His thrusting grew steadier and more precise, and the arm across his breastbone clutched harder. All Will could do was nod, with a trembling jerk, as Hannibal shifted his hips down and to the side. The movement sent a sudden spike of something like _pleasure_ zooming through his core and into his brain, where it flooded his limbic system with a dense burst of arousal. _Whatthefuckwastha—OH._

The other man moved again, brushing the spot deep inside him, and white bursts of heat danced in the darkness behind his eyelids. _Mmm … better._ Will stretched his arm blindly across the countertop, curling his fingertips around one of the stove grates—the same stove where Hannibal had zealously prepared so many meals for them from Dolarhyde's butchered body. He groaned, loud and guttural, surprising himself with the sound. He wasn't usually vocal during sex; he found it distasteful. Of course, everything having to do with Hannibal and _taste_ was a wild contrast to anything he'd experienced before.

At Will's exclamation of pleasure, Hannibal curled his other arm under his armpit, pulling him back against his chest and angling into him sharply. Will's nails razed the metal grate as his body twisted backward. Hannibal pounded into him with rough and unrestrained thrusts, splitting him wide.

The other man's breath against his ear was harsh, his teeth sharp against his sweat-slick neck; and Will suddenly found that he didn't have anything to hold onto. His hands scraped air, frantically seeking an anchor—but there was nothing solid, no surface. Only water, heavy and ice-cold, rushing over his head, filling his mouth and nose and ears with saliferous, blood-tinged foam.

His eyes snapped open. They riveted instantly to the beveled mirror in the hallway—where a black-skinned figure that was half-man, half-beast clutched Will's mirror image in its wild, crooked arms. The stag-man slammed into his body, again and again, echoing Hannibal's movements behind him. The razor-sharp rack of antlers crowning its bald head shook with the force of it. Curved claws punctured his t-shirt; small points of blood bloomed across the fabric where they pinned him.

Will's voice caught in his throat as he opened his mouth to cry out, panic coursing alongside the pleasure flooding his body—but then an even more impossible sight materialized before his eyes.

In the mirror, behind the reflections of himself and the black beast, wavered the slender form of a third person—a girl. Her dark auburn hair fell in a whisper around her pale, freckled face and the white scarf wrapped around her neck. A pain rose in Will's chest as his eyes locked with her startled gaze. A look of terror widened her azure-colored eyes as she watched them.  

" _No,_ " he choked, the sound lost to the swell of the sea that was crashing around and inside of him. But before he could move or call out to her, the mirror was obliterated by a furious tide of blood. It splattered violently against the inside of the glass, coloring his visions of both Abigail and the wendigo in a fierce Rorschach of red.

Less than half a second later, Will was _coming_. His orgasm slammed into him like a truncheon, his cock jerking as bursts of fluid sprayed his abdomen and the side of the island. The hoarse cry that ripped from his throat was barely human.

He'd just climaxed, and Hannibal hadn't even touched him.

Shocks of heat raced through Will's nervous system, scorching his neurons alongside the afterimages of horror that pulsed behind his eyes. Behind him, Hannibal thrust deep into his body—once, and again, shallower—and then seized as his own orgasm overtook him, tearing a high growl from his throat. Hannibal's hips shuddered against Will's, over and over, as his muscles tensed and jerked. Will's torso bent sharply against the counter, his stomach rolling with nausea from the pressure, as Hannibal came into his body.   

Then quiet descended upon the kitchen, broken only by the wheezing of breath and the shifting of limbs as both of them came down from their climaxes. Slowly, their frenzied heartbeats moderated to a more temperate rhythm. The shock from Will's mirror-vision disintegrated, replaced by the warm wave of post-coital neurochemicals that washed through his bloodstream, lulling his body into a forced tranquility.

Hannibal tipped his forehead against Will's skull, his breath coming out in shaky puffs that cooled the back of his neck.

"Did you manage to fix the clock?" he asked.

Will was silent. His thoughts attempted to rearrange themselves into the proper order—from the horror of what he'd just seen in the mirror, to finding the knife in Hannibal's pillow, to the fullness of Hannibal's cock in his mouth the night before, and the icy tension between them in the great room before that. Wooden cogs and wheels and tightly coiled springs, spread around him on the floor like the decimated entrails of some small animal.

Will swallowed. "I couldn't figure it out," he said.

 

___

 

The sound of the sea, pounding relentlessly against the bluff.

If he never forgot one detail of the past eleven days, it would be this, Will thought as he surveyed the dark, restless Atlantic spread out below him.

He shoved his hands into his pockets and tugged his jacket closer around himself. He closed his eyes. Under his left foot was solid earth. Under his right was dead grass and a flimsy border of evergreen brush. An inch to the right of that—empty space.

Pushing past the vertigo, he took a blind step. His right foot sent a rash of pebbles skittering into the abyss. He forced himself forward another step—less tentative this time. Firm ground, on both counts. A third step brought the dizzying sensation of weightlessness underneath the toe of his right boot. He fought the urge to open his eyes. Did the bluff curve to the right or the left here? He didn't know; he hadn't memorized it. Hadn't spent enough time up here to really _see_.

It was as Hannibal had said—he hadn't even glimpsed the bottom before he'd decided to fall. And now that he'd decided to _stay_ , he'd also failed to study the topography of the uncertain ground on which they now stood. So much for the marriage of _ignorance_ and _bliss_.

Will lifted his head, allowing the cold Atlantic air to whistle through his hair and along his face, further chilling his skin. The salt-rich wind caressed his cheek, stinging his healing wound.

"Abigail used to walk here, too." Hannibal's voice rose suddenly behind him, thinned by the ocean's cacophony. "But she usually kept her eyes open."

At the mention of Abigail's name, Will's eyes snapped open. He didn't turn around.

"Where were you this morning."

He heard Hannibal take a step closer, the legs of his trousers rustling the low bushes cloaking the cliff's edge. As usual, Hannibal ignored his question.

"Where are you walking to, Will? Or are you still trying to walk away from me?"

At that, he turned his head. He fixed Hannibal in a chilly stare. "I saw Abigail. Yesterday. When we were..." His voice trailed off for a moment before he found it again. "When we were in the kitchen. I saw her in Palermo, too. When I came to find you."

Hannibal's brow creased, but he remained silent, listening.

Will cleared his throat. "She—we talked together. About you. We had actual  _conversations_." He laughed once, hollow. "I was so convinced she was real, it was like losing her all over again when she disappeared … And then  _you_ reappeared."

The wind lifted Hannibal's silver-streaked hair and settled it across his forehead, marring the vision of perfection in the tan wool coat and kid leather gloves and pressed slacks. Always composed, always removed. Did Hannibal feel _nothing?_ Not even after cutting Abigail's throat and leaving her to gasp as she bled out on his kitchen floor?

"Abigail connected us in a very special way. Our connection is changing now. If Abigail manifested as a vision to you, it's because you needed to see her. To better understand what you and I are becoming."

He shook his head. "This feels more like _undoing_ than becoming."

Hannibal opened his mouth, then closed it. After a moment, he turned his head to look at the sea. His eyes squinted at the faraway tendrils of fog rolling in.

"I hope I didn't cause you pain yesterday," he said quietly.

What Hannibal didn't say was, _You didn't come to bed last night._

"If you had, would you care?" Will spat.

Hannibal took another step and then stopped at the edge of the patio, seemingly hesitant to move any closer. Hannibal was actually _afraid,_ he realized. Afraid that Will might topple them over the edge again. The thought almost made him smile. Almost.

"Of course I would. Your well-being concerns me."

"But it's not your _responsibility_."

"No. It's not. Your health is in your own hands. I can only encourage your wounds to heal, and your mind to open."

Will gestured at the space between himself and Hannibal. He felt utterly exasperated. "Is this our new alternative to killing each other? Cohabitating? Being _physical?_ "

Hannibal weighed the question with a serious look. After a minute, he spoke. "Well, there _are_ many parallels. Throughout history, poets, mystics, and religious worshippers alike have compared the throes of passion to violence. They viewed copulation as a celebration of mortality. Hence, why orgasm is often called 'the little death'." He paused. "You felt something similar when you wrestled the Dragon."

"If you want me to have a _bloodless_ death, you could just poison my food," he said, sarcastic. He wasn't in the mood for Hannibal's fanciful analogies. "But I guess there's a reason you wouldn't do that, right? _Spoils the meat._ "

Hannibal squared his jaw. He held Will's gaze, unflinching. "You still refuse to trust me."

Will chuckled. He flexed his cold fingers inside his jacket pockets. "There's a thousand and one reasons why we'll never be able to completely trust each other. You know that." He looked away, over the bluff and out toward the endless expanse of water. A thick cushion of blue-tinged clouds pressed down on the horizon, seeming to strangle the black-rimmed waves into temporary submission.

"You never told me about seeing Abigail in Palermo. Why?" Hannibal's voice was calm. Curious.

"We didn't have much of an opportunity for catch-up, between me trying to stab you and you trying to saw my skull in half."

Hannibal's lip twitched at the memory. "True."

Will sighed. He was tired. Exhausted, actually. He now understood why people used the term 'bone-weary.' He felt drained to the marrow.

"I can't lose her a third time, Hannibal. The first two were cruel enough."

Hannibal slid his hands out of his pockets and rested them at his sides, listening intently.

"I can't stay in this house. I … she … I don't want to see her again. Ever. Not like _that_." He turned to face the other man, planting his foot alongside the crumbling edge of the bluff. "We can go together, or I can go alone. Either way, I'm going."

Hannibal tilted his head and smiled, and the strange light of it seemed to warm the earth around him, marking the only bright spot in that slate-gray landscape.

"As luck would have it, my business this morning took us closer to that very goal. I've been in contact with Chiyoh. She's helping make arrangements from overseas. New identities, among other necessities."

"For you, or for _us?_ "

"Both of us. Of course."

Will paused, thinking. If he hadn't already earned a respectable prison sentence for aiding and abetting a fugitive, then assuming a false identity while evading the federal government would certainly ensure that he'd be locked away for the entirety of his golden years, and then some.

He gave a stilted laugh, his mind whirling with _what-ifs_. "The last time I saw Chiyoh, she kissed me and threw me off a train. I didn't mention the first part before."

Hannibal smirked. "As I told you, she's very protective of me. And she can be feisty, but helpful." He smoothed his gloved hands along the sides of his coat. "Now do we accept Chiyoh's help, or would you prefer to face Jack and the FBI on your own?"

"I … I need to think about it."

"No, you don't, Will. You already made your decision, twelve nights ago. You pulled us _both_ out of the water. All you have to decide now is where you'd like to go."

He stared at Hannibal, incredulous. "You don't have a _plan?_ "

"Only to leave the country. I thought to offer the other decision to you."

Will swallowed. He felt like a tugboat adrift on a borderless sea, bobbing along with the rough waves. And now Hannibal was asking him to strap his line to the tanker of their impossible situation and tow them—in an unspecified direction.

"Think, Will. If you could go anywhere in the world, where would it be? Close your eyes and _think_."

Will closed his eyes. In the darkness of his mind, he saw nothing. No idyllic images sprung to life of hidden mountain cabins or hot stretches of white-sand beach, or even populous urban jungles where they could blend in amongst the clamor and closeness of the crowds.

Instead, the sound and smell of the ever-wakeful ocean invaded his ears and nose and congealed in his throat, and he knew, with absolute certainty, that he didn't want to be near the sea. Or in Italy. Or anywhere that reminded him of Abigail.

He stilled. This wasn't working. He was, as Hannibal had noted, envisioning failure—not transformation. He cleared his throat and tightened his thoughts around himself like a cloak, until he could feel the vibration of his own heartbeat underneath the echo of the waves, batting like a moth inside his ribcage.

He reached back, far back, into the dark place in his mind—to a time when life and death had danced their sinister, twisted tango within him, unchained and wild. To the last time he'd seized something for his own pleasure—his own _power_ —and reveled in the deadly beauty of _becoming_. Before rejoining Hannibal; before killing the Dragon; before plunging into the cold, black water below.

The forest. The man. The snails. And the hushed unfolding of heavy, mirrored wings in the night.

"I want to go home," he answered, raising his eyes. "Not to Virginia. To where you were made, and where I made myself."

Hannibal's eyebrows lifted. A faint shadow of apprehension flitted over his face as his mouth settled into a lopsided smile. He nodded slowly. "Then home is where we'll go. Pack light. We leave the day after tomorrow."

Will turned toward the cliff—toward the icy, obstreperous Atlantic that swelled and beat relentlessly against the protrusion of rock and earth on which they stood, two abandoned creatures at the edge of the world.

"Leave the knife," he told him.


	2. A swarm of bees and honey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A sequel/accompaniment to this story is in the works, and it's gonna be a doozy. It may take some time to finish, so please bear with me :) In the meantime, this fic can be read as a complete and standalone story, as it was originally meant to be. Thanks for reading, and stay tuned for more!**  
>     
> The music in this chapter can be heard at the following link: [_Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silence._](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MzSRdk5khFU) I highly recommend a listen!

 

Will was squinting down at his passport for the third time in the past half-hour. Hannibal tipped his paper cup and swallowed the last, lukewarm sip of his macchiato. He wrinkled his nose. _Airport coffee_.

"Problem?" Hannibal asked as he set the cup on the table between their seats, which was stained with overlapping brown rings—the marks of many a forgotten cup of bad coffee.

"Bryan Harris-Ressler. Who picked _that_ name? The forger?"

Hannibal chuckled. He leaned back against the plastic lounge chair and folded his hands behind his head, glad to be finally free of the cloth bandages and gauze. "No, Chiyoh did. I gave her some creative license with yours. She probably picked it from the paper."

"From the obituary section, I bet," he said wryly, closing the passport's navy cover and tucking it back into the pocket of his roller bag.

Hannibal smirked. "I see your sense of humor is returning."

Will nudged his new glasses higher on his nose and nodded toward Hannibal's blue plaid suit jacket, where the dark red cover of his passport peeked over the top of his breast pocket. "So who's 'Andrea Marcovaldo,' then? And why do you get to reinvent yourself as an Italian national while I'm stuck as an American?"

He lifted his eyebrows, glancing sideways at Will, but the other man's expression was teasing rather than disparaging. Despite their three-hour flight delay, it seemed as though Will's mood was nearly bordering on _good_. A marked improvement from two days prior.

Will scratched at his temple, his nails leaving tiny pink marks on his freshly-shorn scalp. His skin, pale and faintly shiny, was nearly visible underneath his fugitive's buzz cut. Hannibal already knew that he was going to miss the softness of Will's curls. (The haircut had _not_ been his idea.)

Hannibal cleared his throat. After a pause, he answered, "One of my professors in Florence—Andrea Pollaiuolo. He was influential in my study of anatomical illustration. He was also a mentor to me. He said that imagination is what keeps the spirit aloft when life becomes heavy. I carry that truth with me today."

"Are you still in contact with him?" Will asked. He looked slightly surprised, as though he were having difficulty processing Hannibal's uncensored praise of another human being—a disappointing observation.

He shook his head. "He died during my last term. Stomach cancer. He decided against chemotherapy. He faded slowly over the course of a year, piece by piece. The last piece to fail was his mind. He continued to teach for four months after his diagnosis. I visited him at his home in Castello, until he became too sick."

"Oh. I didn't—"

"So you could say it's a tribute," he said, cutting off Will's apology. Hannibal folded his hands into his lap, tucking the memory away. He fell silent, remembering the Florence of his university years. It was a Florence bursting with flavor, with beauty, with sensuality, with youth. And, just as easily as a candle is extinguished—with death.

The last impression was one he'd carried into the Florence of his middle years, to his time there with Bedelia and his _colleghi_ at the Forte di Belvedere and the Palazzo Capponi. In his mind, Tuscany would always be tinged with blood.

"The last name is no accident, either," he continued, seized by a sudden desire to talk, to _share_. "In the Baptistery of Saint John in Florence, there's a thirteenth-century mosaic by the Duecento artist Coppo di Marcovaldo. In it, Satan reclines on a throne of flames, crushing a man between his teeth. He holds two more in his hands. The snakes that attend him also feast on the damned. On the coldest days of winter, I would stop by the _battistero_ on my way home to look at it." Hannibal paused. "It … warmed me."

Will gazed at the floor between his feet, quiet. Thinking. _Not quite in the mood to talk, then_ , Hannibal thought to himself _._ So be it.

He turned to gaze at the passengers wandering the hideous strip mall that lined the entire length of the airport's main terminal. As in every airport in every metropolitan city, there were impertinent, runny-nosed children dodging the arms of fattening middle-aged parents; suntanned backpackers glowing with adventure and venereal diseases of the kind young people often acquire in hostels; and the carefully packaged infirmed being rolled along in their wheelchairs by their fatigued caretakers.

Most people would be amazed to learn how significantly the texture and quality of meat could be impacted by age, health, and lifestyle. The couple with the sun-faded, patch-strewn jackets, wearing a floppy canvas hat (him) and a frizzy, honey-colored braid (her), would've yielded choice cuts for a honey-and-soy-glaze _char sui_ —if not for the young man's blossoming case of genital herpes. Hannibal could smell the virus slithering under the unwashed flesh of his groin. The radiant smile his female companion flashed as they bounced through the terminal, hand in hand, suggested that she wasn't yet aware of the surprise gift he'd already given her.

Hannibal turned back to Will, bored already with his study of the airport populace. Will was staring fixedly at the floor, a small frown tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Lost in thought?" he asked.

Will sighed and scrubbed his hands across his freshly-shaven face, pressing his fingertips into his eye sockets and knocking his glasses askew. The cut on his face was healing well, Hannibal observed. A thin red line, about an inch in length and nearly straight, was all that remained of the bloody ribbon Francis' knife had made of his cheek more than two weeks ago. The horizontal scar on Will's forehead was longer by comparison, but thinner. Paler. Less intrusive. It annoyed Hannibal to look at it.

He'd never before seen Will without facial hair, though, and he was both amused and vaguely alarmed at the number of years it gave back to him, even with the new scar. It wouldn't have been impossible for a passerby to believe that they were actually father and son. (Another thought that did not sit well, and which Hannibal pushed out of his mind as immediately as it appeared.)

"Hmm, no," Will answered. "Not lost. Not thinking. Bored. This carpet is hideous."

Hannibal peered down between his knees. The brown-and-gray checkered polyester had been trafficked to thinness by hundreds of thousands of shoes and was badly in need of replacement. As far as airport carpets went, he could easily concede with Will's assessment. It _was_ hideous. It also appeared as though the other man's pessimism was returning, which was undesirable. And a bit irritating.

Will cleared his throat. "Remind me again why we've been sitting in the Panama City airport. For _three hours_."

Hannibal sighed. He could see that Will had decided to sulk.

"Because even extravagance has limits," he answered, somewhat testily. "The private plane Chiyoh arranged from Maryland isn't licensed for transatlantic travel. But an international flight from outside the States will throw pepper on our scent. Jack and his bloodhounds won't be able to smell us from here. We'll be in Vilnius by tomorrow evening."

"But _Panama_ —to Lithuania? That's a pretty circuitous route."

Hannibal privately agreed. He was more comfortable traveling business class and direct, but some sacrifices had to be made when securing travel arrangements as an internationally wanted felon.

"Expert forgers are a dying breed in today's paranoid world, Will," he said. "When you find one that's trustworthy, _you_ go to _him_. Not the other way around."

"And so you and Chiyoh just happened to locate a master forger all the way down in Panama?" Will drummed his fingertips against his coffee cup and slouched deeper into his seat. Hannibal was really going to have to talk to him about his abominable posture. The man was perpetually folded in on himself, as though trying to mimic an accordion.

Hannibal sniffed. "Well. As you know, Jack was kind enough to hold onto my other passports while I was incarcerated. _Your_ creativity appears to be suspended at a single identity. So, acquiring two new passports under different names was a necessary step in our relocation."

Will's head jerked up as a man stumbled over their feet on his way past the row with a muttered " _Siento._ " He turned back to Hannibal, nodding in silent concession.

"Of course, we must also aim to conceal and mislead." Hannibal paused, and then added, "If you're unhappy with the arrangements, you could always pay a visit to the Canal. Maybe get a boat to take you there faster, if you barter your mechanic services to the skipper."

"Very funny." Will sighed. He took a swig from his coffee and scowled. "Ugh. Cold."

Hannibal plucked the paper cup from Will's hand and stood up, his knees cracking in protest. (Yet another reminder of the linear progression of aging, he thought to himself.) He swiped his own discarded cup from the table with his other hand.

"You'll be more relaxed if you stop anticipating something bad at every intersection, Will. Basic positivity. It goes a long way towards extending life."

He turned and dumped the cups into a bin. "Fresh coffee. This time, from someplace without a satirically misspelled name. It'll improve both our moods. Stay here with the bags. I won't be long."

Will looked up, disquiet brimming in his storm-gray eyes. "Where else would I go?"

 

___

 

The drive from the Vilnius International Airport to the forested outskirts of Panevėžys took just under two hours on the A2. Hannibal, having somehow managed to steal significantly more sleep than Will on their bumpy transatlantic flight, slid happily into place behind the wheel of their rented Bentley. Will settled into the passenger seat and turned to gaze out the window.

The Aukštaitijan countryside rushed by in dark waves of moonlit conifers and drying pastures dotted with brown and yellow. Autumn was further ahead here than it was in Maryland, although snowfall had not yet muted the landscape's verdant palette.

A pang of nostalgia rose in Will's chest as his eyes took in the lush, familiar topography: spruce-covered hills bracketing half-hidden clusters of ponds, their placid silver surfaces perfect mirrors for the evening sky. When the river appeared to their right, curving like a long, black snake under the highway and uncoiling ahead of them, he knew they were getting close.  

Hannibal pulled up the gravel driveway inside the gates of the Lecter estate and slid the Bentley into park at the grandiose front entrance. Chiyoh appeared at the top of the scalloped stone steps—a tall, slender figure in a long coat. Her steel eyes regarded Will with a mixture of wariness and derision as he climbed out the passenger side of the car. She didn't seem surprised to see him alive. He wondered briefly if _everyone_ in Hannibal's tightly controlled inner circle was as nonchalant about killing as Hannibal himself.

Will went around to the trunk to grab his roller bag and small suitcase, which collectively held the sum of his worldly possessions: a razor and a can of shaving cream; his new passport that proclaimed him one Bryan Harris-Ressler (a name that didn't quite roll off the tongue, a name he wouldn't have picked for himself in a hundred years; which led him to believe that Chiyoh still held a grudge against him); a handful of books (mixed psychology texts and late medieval literary classics that Hannibal had suggested he borrow from the cliffside house's library—the man's idea of light reading, apparently); and the small wardrobe of new clothes Hannibal had assembled for him in Maryland.

He'd need the shaving cream, since his new passport photo showed a short-haired, clean-shaven man that bore only a passing resemblance to a ghost named Will Graham. The rest was window dressing—Hannibal's way of ushering him into their self-imposed felonic renaissance.

Of course, Hannibal himself had eschewed any suggestion of altering his dutifully manicured look, instead preferring to don sunglasses and a fedora when he required anonymity. Which didn't look suspicious at all, Will had pointed out. In reply, Hannibal had suggested that he quit running his hands over his buzzed head, as it was a dead giveaway of his discomfort with his recent haircut.

Hannibal and Chiyoh exchanged a few words in Japanese as they stepped over the threshold of the sprawling, fifteenth-century estate, dragging their luggage alongside them. With a final, depreciative glance in Will's direction, Hannibal's ever-mysterious surrogate sister swept away nearly as quickly as she'd materialized. Her dark coat billowed behind her like the ink cloud from an angry squid.

"I hope she's not going for her rifle," Will said, only half-joking, as Chiyoh disappeared from view around a corner.

Hannibal chuckled, leading them toward the imposing marble staircase that stretched in a heavy arc toward the second floor. "Will. You're my guest. Chiyoh won't set her scope on you again. Not unless I tell her to."

He stopped in mid-step. "Not exactly a comforting thought."

"We're not in a very comfortable position," Hannibal said, with a shrug, as he lifted his bags from the floor and started up. "Chiyoh will provide protection for us until we've made a clean break from the Western Hemisphere. She'll be our eyes and ears to the world."

Will swallowed and picked up his own bags, the lighter one causing the healing wound in his right shoulder to twinge in protest. He followed Hannibal up to the dusky, second-floor landing, doubling his steps to match the other man's longer stride. Will had an uneasy feeling that the foundation was crumbling behind him with every step. He wouldn't have been surprised to see a black, bridgeless hole unfurling in place of the staircase.

Hannibal led them down a wood-paneled hallway to their left. Embossed burgundy wallpaper decorated the top half of the walls, which were hung with gilt-framed oil portraits of various members of the Lecter family tree. Counts and countesses and lords and dukes, all identified by the tarnished oval plates at the bottom of each painting that bore their names in hand-carved strings of accented graphemes.

Just as when he'd come here the first time, Will had the distant sense that he was slipping into a fairytale world. He'd spent some time in the Lecter library several years ago, absorbing the family's centuries-old records. They were tainted by long histories of war in the Mediterranean and the Baltic, and ruthless military coups by power-hungry Milanese nobles risen from the sun-drenched soil of rural Lombardy. New alliances, lineages, and territories had been created and destroyed with the bloody reshuffling of the Italian aristocracy, and a Galician kingdom had roared to life under the standard of a golden lion. _This_ was Hannibal's legacy.

In such a house, it was hard not to be reminded of the wealth that had spilled down into Hannibal's hands from the many centuries of conquests preceding his mother and father's marriage. Will followed Hannibal around a corner and through a door at the end of the hallway. His mouth dropped open as they entered a spacious, lavishly decorated room. Layered damask drapes dripping with a lush pattern of crimson and umber leaves hung over the high, arched windows. An antique wardrobe loomed against the far wall, and an enormous carved-oak bed clothed in a striped silk coverlet sat in the center of the room. Shadows danced violently along the walls, sprung to life by the flames flickering in an enormous tiled fireplace.

Hannibal dropped his briefcase on the Persian rug with a soft thud. He gestured at the room, his lips twisting into a cavalier smile. "The master. I hope you'll find it comfortable."

The way Hannibal had said _"the"_ suggested that it would be both unwise and impolite to ask for his own bedroom, so Will simply nodded and tossed his luggage onto the rack against the wall. Turning away, he began to unload his meager possessions.

If there were any other estranged family or imprisoned murderers floating around the Lecter estate, Will had yet to see them. He suspected that he and Hannibal and Chiyoh were the only living souls on the property—besides the snails, of course. Although, with Hannibal, it was impossible to ever really know. He'd hidden Abigail for months without giving him the slightest indication that she was still alive.

"Well," Hannibal said, the wheels of his roller bag scraping the hardwood floor as he tucked it out of the way, "I need to speak with Chiyoh about a few things. Then, I thought, a celebratory meal. Since we interrupted ourselves last time." Though Will couldn't see his face, he could tell by Hannibal's tone that he was grinning.

"I took the liberty of sending Chiyoh a grocery list. For a Lithuanian homecoming, no dish is more comforting than _zrazai_ —also called beef birds. Fried roulade stuffed with pork, boletus mushrooms, and vegetables, stewed in a casserole, and then garnished with kasha. We'll have to make do with real cow and pig, of course."

"Sounds nice."

Hannibal paused, sensing Will's detachment. "You should rest for a while, Will. Your sleep schedule's been disrupted."

Will frowned at his messy suitcase. Since they'd arrived in Lithuania, Hannibal had been _telling_ him what they'd be doing, rather than _conferring_ with him. Maybe he was a little tired, but the sense that he and Hannibal had been tilted wildly off-balance had persisted throughout their journey—and even before it, if he was being honest. It was, he thought, as though Hannibal had handed their fate to him on a platter, asking him to choose where they ran—and then snatched it away, leaving Will with one decision, and one decision only, to call his own.

Hannibal had only given him the _illusion_ of control—and they both knew it.

Will wouldn't have been surprised if Hannibal had guessed he'd choose Lithuania for their escape. He'd always been able to get inside his head deeper, faster, and more thoroughly than Molly, or Alana, or Jack—or anyone else he'd known, for that matter.

"Will?"

Hannibal's voice broke him from his thoughts. He turned, clutching the pair of too-big navy jogging bottoms he'd somehow absorbed from Hannibal's wardrobe.

"Hm?"

Hannibal studied his face, tipping his head and considering what he saw. Will stared back, unblinking. A predator assessing his prey? Or simply one human being showing curiosity for another? The question was quickly answered as he saw concern—even warmth—arise in Hannibal's brown eyes. Will felt his body involuntarily relax under the other man's gaze. Disarmed again.

"You should rest. And don't worry so much. I'll take care of everything."

" _Everything_. Okay." Will tried to make his smile look genuine.

A thought wavered in his mind beneath the shadow of Hannibal's words: _That's what I'm afraid of_.

 

___

 

A lone sprosser whistled solemnly from an alder tree overhead, its song absent of the piercing crescendo characteristic of most nightingales. They were common throughout the Aukštaitijan region, but one rarely saw them. They were reclusive birds who preferred to hide from the sun and from most other creatures. This bird had chosen wisely, Hannibal thought. Most of the other creatures here were dead.

His feet crunched on the spilled gravel between the rectangular grave plots as he followed the stone pathway zigzagging through Šilaičiai cemetery. Hannibal had been glad to escape the estate for a few hours, after a tense, late-night dinner where Will had said little and Chiyoh had said less. Neither of them had complimented him on his _zrazai_.

He supposed the awkwardness was to be expected. Chiyoh had never been an eager conversationalist, and Will was obviously still upset that she'd tried to kill him. Twice.

He'd have to stop putting them in the same room together. Or perhaps—to make things more interesting—he'd make sure it happened more often. Their mutual dislike was like flint and kindling; and Hannibal did enjoy experimenting with arson, on occasion. He'd flip a coin on it later.

He sighed, turning his thoughts from his discordant household to the grid-like maze of black and gray headstones, each of which was separated into its own small square of memory or abandon. The names on the marble slabs read like vignettes of local history from his youth: Varnas and Kozłowski—two families that had feuded for decades. One generation had tried to put an end to it with a marriage, but the Kozłowski husband was a drunk who'd beat the Varnas wife to death during a snowstorm on New Year's Day, and the feud had roared back to life after that.

And Jergis Butkus, who'd suffered a frontal lobe injury while taking down a tree behind his farmhouse. That hadn't killed him, however. Instead, he'd woken up believing he was a seventeenth-century hussar who'd time-traveled to the future to expose Catholic priests recruited by the KGB. Jergis had taken to wearing a long crimson cloak with goose feathers sewn onto the back, in an imitation of the wooden wings of the historical cavalrymen. When he'd accidentally drowned in the Nevėžis River six years later, he was found floating on his back, with the tattered robe streaming out behind him like a victory banner.  

All of the Lecter ancestors were buried on the estate grounds, of course; Hannibal wouldn't find any of his family here. But as he meandered between the clusters of boxwood and flowerpots overflowing with yellowed husks, he saw that the sprawling cemetery at the south end of Kulturos ir Poilsio Park had become home to a number of other names from his childhood.

Donatas Backus. The sweets shop proprietor who'd once beat Hannibal's hands with a bread paddle after he'd stolen a broken stem from a _šakotis_ cake. And even Jiera Dargis, who'd dragged him under the billowing skirt of her older sister's dress and kissed him when they were both seven. She'd tugged the hem down around their shoulders so no one would see, while the older girl stood stock-still, howling, with tears streaming down her face.

He stopped in front of a small, white headstone amid a cluster of flowerless graves, gravel crunching under his heels. Heat coiled inside his breast as he silently read the name: Kazimieras Rubis. He'd been a servant at the Lecter estate when Hannibal was a boy. Hannibal had caught the man staring at Mischa in the bath when she was four years old. He'd rarely let Kazimieras out of his sight after that, although the man had eventually left to work for a family in Kaunas. But the fierce flare of protectiveness that had risen in Hannibal after the incident had never left him. He'd sometimes bathed with Mischa after that, when their mother wasn't watching, so that she wouldn't be alone.

It was almost a pity that Kazimieras was already dead, he thought. His head would've made a fine  _svið_ , the boiled eyes condemned to ogle the ceiling in lidless apprehension until Hannibal speared them with his fork.

He turned to the north, to the direction of the river where Jergis Butkus had drowned more than forty years ago. A faint breeze carried with it the heavy scents of wood and tilled earth and, beyond that, weed-choked freshwater—the product of years upon years of fertilizer runoff. Earlier that night, he'd walked Plukių Street up and down, sometimes edging right up against the grassy banks of the Nevėžis, and then veering sharply as the road curved away from the water toward higher ground.

Will liked rivers. The Mississippi had been his second home once, and Wolftrap Creek his refuge. The twin rhythms of the fly rod and the rushing water calmed him, Hannibal knew. Vibration and tension—crescendo and release. Much like music, they soothed Will. _Lured_ him.

The bright flash of an idea struck him, teasing a grin from his lips. He turned down the cemetery pathway toward the street, not caring if the little nightingale in the alder tree thought it strange that he was smiling at himself in the dark. He knew _exactly_ where he was going to take Will tomorrow night.

 

___

 

"I thought we were supposed to be laying low and making a _clean_ break," Will said. His face turned toward the passenger window as Hannibal curved the Bentley onto Nemuno Street from the A10.

"We _are_. Try to relax. No one will see us."

"Then why did I have to change clothes?" he asked crabbily. He threw an annoyed look at Hannibal, and then turned back to the window.

Hannibal raised his eyebrows. "I know you're jetlagged, Will. But that's not a good reason to sit around in jogger pants all day. Besides, when was the last time you went out on a Saturday?" He tried to make his tone light, congenial. He wanted Will to be _present_ for this, his mind unburdened from anxiety and restlessness.

Will sighed. From the corner of his eye, Hannibal watched him crumple back against the seat. "Sorry. I'm just." He scrubbed his hands across his face. "Acclimating."

"Will. You were nearly killed, and then nearly drowned. You became a fugitive. With me, you discovered sides of yourself you didn't know existed. Then you assumed a new identity, and relocated to another continent. All in the space of less than three weeks." Hannibal paused. "You have a valid list of reasons for feeling overwhelmed."

The other man was quiet, but Hannibal could hear his mind turning. Acknowledging. Agreeing.

The streetlamps overhead illuminated the road and the grassy median in flashes of gray and green. Hannibal blinked as the familiar landmarks of Panevėžys appeared briefly in his headlights, and then darkened. The sports complex and gymnasium loomed to his left—a place where some children grew, and others withered. To their right, a long, rectangular building topped by a tall silver spire glowed a dusky golden-yellow in the early evening darkness.

Will's head swiveled, staring at the yellow building as they passed it. Hannibal turned immediately onto a side street that ended in a block of apartments. He pulled to the curb and slid the car into park. 

"A church? That's where we're going?"

Hannibal cut the engine and turned to Will with an obliging smile. "Not just any church. The Panevėžys Cathedral of Christ the King. Come. I want to show you something."

The two men got out and strolled silently to the cathedral grounds. Will shoved his hands deep into his trouser pockets, arms pressed tight against his sides. The churchyard was bordered by leafless, black trees, some of which would flower in the spring. Soft light gleamed from the arched double windows spanning the entire length of the cathedral's outer walls.

"Wait—is there a mass goi—" Will started, but Hannibal cut in, reassuring him. "No one will notice us. I _promise_."

Hannibal pressed his palm to the other man's back, guiding him up the stairs to the entrance. The carved oak door, framed between twin Corinthian columns, swung open more easily than one would suspect. Hannibal followed Will into the church, allowing his fingertips to linger on his shoulder before dropping away. He ignored the stoup of holy water inside the doorway, and watched as Will's face took in the unexpected sights and sounds inside the soft yellow walls.

The evening mass was in full progression inside the cathedral, which, in a trick of the eye, appeared much larger from the inside. Communion had commenced, and rows of neatly dressed worshippers were shuffling, single-file, up to the chancel to receive the Eucharist. A film of incense hung on the air, sharp and cedar-sweet. In the loft above where Hannibal and Will stood, the thunderous, majestic swell of a great pipe organ urged the congregation to seize its sacrament. No one had noticed them come in.

From the back of the church, their eyes swept over the sloping white pillars that rose from the floor to the three naves. The upper walls and ceiling were adorned with sky-blue frescos of angels and saints. Priceless Baroque statues, each framed within individual oak altars, lined the back and sides of the church: the Virgin, Saint Casimir, Saint Francis of Assisi, Saint Monika, and Hannibal's favorite—Saint Aloysius, protector of children.

The carved oak altar and tabernacle were flanked by sixteen stone angels. Behind the altar, a picturesque mural of Panevėžys provided contrast to the colorful fresco-secco that stretched toward the ceiling. The fresco depicted Saint Casimir's apparition to the Lithuanian army of the early 1930s—a victorious image, and one of considerable local importance. Hannibal saw, with satisfaction, that the painting had been restored since his last visit here as a child. The scarlet, teal, and umber hues of the soldiers' robes appeared fresher and more vivid now than they did in his memory palace.

Below the military tableau stood a life-sized statue of the triumphant Christ himself, dressed in flowing robes and a royal crown. One stone hand clutched a scepter, and the other was extended, palm-up, in a gesture of peace.

Will leaned into Hannibal's ear. "There's no cross," he said, surprised, his voice thin against the organ's cavernous resounding.

The music rumbled low and deep through Hannibal's body, carrying him aloft like a wave. The intertwined scents of sweat and old books whispered through his olfactory imagination. His throat tightened at the memory. "No," he heard himself say. "No cross. Here, God's son is a conqueror—not a martyr."

Will clasped his hands behind his back as his eyes roamed the muraled ceiling. "It's a beautiful church. Did you used to come here?"

Hannibal nodded, feeling the sway of the organist's dark and dexterous orchestration pulling him deeper into God's shadow.

Will paused. His eyes lifted toward the unseen balcony directly above, from which the music flowed down and around them. "What are we listening to?"

"' _Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silence._ '"

Will flashed an inquisitive look, his eyes shining cerulean blue in the light from the low-hanging crystal chandeliers.

"A third-century Eucharistic chant of Greek origin, fused with a French medieval folk melody. Usually played at Advent, but a favorite Communion hymn of the organist here."

Will's eyebrows quirked up. "You know the song? And the person playing it?"

"Yes."

He did. He'd heard it many times; played it many times. So many times, in fact, that the keystrokes were practically imprinted upon his fingers. He knew the organist, too—very well. _Too_ well.

Hannibal closed his eyes and allowed the dulcet tones of the hymn to overtake him. His memory swelled and stretched, contorted by the fierce, rumbling pull of the pipes. Images gathered in the blackness of his mind, merging into one another: pastoral figures on varnished wood; slender fingers flitting along rectangles of bone; wide hands shuffling ink-stippled sheets of music; thick fingers dragging red welts from quivering flesh.

One tear, then another, squeezed from his closed eyelids. Hannibal did not move to wipe them.

He felt the sudden warmth of Will's fingers on his wrist, and heard the worried incline of his voice as Will said Hannibal's name once, sharp. He shook his head, unable to answer.

Before Hannibal knew what was happening, he was being pulled out of the light and warmth of the church and dragged outside, under the cold indigo sky.

He opened his eyes. The courtyard was silent around them. Will's hand was steady on his arm as he hovered at his side. The heat from the small points of contact between their bodies was radiant.

"Are you— _what_ happened?" Will whispered harshly.

He breathed in deeply. He exhaled. "His name is Danukas Adomaitis."

Will waited, his eyes searching Hannibal's face with a mixture of concern and confusion.

"The hands making that music taught me how to play the harpsichord. And the organ. They also taught themselves how to play me—although I didn't invite them to."

Hannibal watched the other man's eyes widen as he grasped the implication.

"When you said this place made me, you weren't wrong," Hannibal said. "It made me in more ways than one. I learned things that most children don't. Then Mischa died, and a part of me did, too. A part of me also grew." His words were icy puffs, disintegrating on the nighttime air. It was getting colder in Panevėžys. "I left home a few years later. I believed I'd never come back."

"Then—why _did_ you come back with me?" Will's voice was like dry leaves scratching against a windowpane.

He considered the question, running his tongue along his lower lip. "It's not healing to see your childhood home, but it can help you measure whether you are broken—and how, and why. Assuming you want to know. But sometimes _knowing_ isn't enough."

"Didn't you tellanyone what happened to you?"

"My mother." The word was a stone on Hannibal's tongue. "She had a very nervous disposition. She'd blindfolded herself a long time ago to everything ugly outside the estate walls. Then Mischa was murdered, and the world split open in a blinding rip of light and terror. So she chose a different kind of blindfold."

The other man's eyes were soft. His empathy glowed within them like a beacon. "What happened to her—your mother?"

"She went insane."

Will's eyebrows quirked, but his mouth remained grim. "So she was unavailable to you. In every sense."

Hannibal nodded, remembering. Vacancy was always a difficult impression to recall. It invariably left holes in one's consciousness.

They were both quiet for what seemed like a long time. Hannibal lifted his hand to wipe a cold, lingering tear from his cheek.

"I used to read horror stories as a boy," he said, breaking the silence. "There's an amusing one from an Alfred Hitchcock compilation. It's about a naturalist who discovers a snail the size of a house, living on a small island. The snail begins to chase him—slow but persistent. When the naturalist becomes too exhausted to stay awake, the snail finally catches up and eats him alive. It rips him apart with the thousands of teeth embedded in its tongue, like a log saw. I used to fantasize about the same happening to my mother."

Will stared quietly at Hannibal, absorbing. 

"They were only fantasies. But in the end, her fate  _was_ similar to the naturalist's. Her madness also swallowed her alive. And the snails claimed what was left of her."

He reached out then, circling Will's wrist and pulling him closer. The other man's body swayed with the movement, like a bare branch in the wind, and then pressed against him. In the frigid autumn air, their breath mingled in visible puffs as the warmth between them ratcheted to a hot sear that throbbed in Hannibal's temple—his jugular—his groin. The invisible, cartilage-like thread connecting them pulsed and shrank, pulling them imperceptibly closer, as it always did—as it always would.

"Danukas deserves no less than my mother did," he said, low. "Madness and terror haven't touched him yet. But they  _will_."

Understanding flickered in Will's eyes as they met Hannibal's.

"Do it with me," he whispered, pulling Will to him, _hungry_.

Will's eyes dropped. He looked away, almost as if embarrassed. His wrist slipped from Hannibal's fingers as he shifted, opening space between their bodies. It was as though a blade had come slicing down, severing the cord between them; and in that moment Hannibal felt the rhythms of both their hearts falter.

"You said we needed to ensure our safety," Will said carefully. " _If_  we kill him, we'll be pinning a spotlight on ourselves. It won't take the police long to connect the dots to two recently arrived non-nationals, living in the same area as a missing man." He paused. His voice and face were a sick wash of  _sorry, sorry, sorry_. "That's a pretty big red flag in a place as small as Panevėžys."

Hannibal stepped back as the heat between them turned abruptly to ice.

"Danukas is already dead," he said, his voice rough. "He died when I was nine years old. Before his hands ever strayed from the organ's keys. When I was only a _thought_ in his mind."

"I _believe_ you," Will said. It was a flimsy attempt at reassurance. "I know it probably feels as real as it did back then. It's not that I don't understand—I _do_. I'm not trying to undermine anything that happened." He shook his head, as if he could loosen the tainted knowledge from it. "I'm just trying to be practical, as harsh as that sounds. For _both_ of us."

Disappointment spiked Hannibal like a cilice, embedding deep within the keloids of his childhood memory. Will wasn't reacting as he'd expected him to. And it hurt.

"Please, Hannibal," Will begged, his voice and eyes infuriatingly soft.

" _This_ isn't about being practical!" he snapped. "I asked you to be intimate with your true nature, like _I_ am. Listen to your instincts!"

A muscle in the other man's jaw flexed as his demeanor shifted. Anger flared in his sea-gray eyes. "Okay then. So _how_ did you even know he was still here?"

"Because I looked in on him," Hannibal shot back. "Last night. He was a young man himself back then, only eighteen years my senior. I anticipated he hadn't died or relocated. I was right."

"So _that's_ what you were doing." Will was snarling now, his eyes bright and bitter. "Did you even go to _sleep_? You were so focused on planning this right away, you couldn't bring yourself to stick around on our first night here. _Why_ are we even sharing a bedroom?" He laughed. The sound bit Hannibal's ears. "This is ludicrous. None of this makes any sense."

Hannibal stilled, letting his anger slough off him like dead skin. He forced his expression to relax—eyes placid, mouth steady. Automatic. He closed himself up, perfectly and precisely, as he'd become accustomed to doing around those who didn't understand him. Will wanted him to wear what Bedelia had called his "person suit." He wanted a companion—someone to shelter him from the unpredictabilities of the life on which they'd embarked, while simultaneously reveling in them. Confusing, even for a man of such compelling contrasts as Will Graham.

Hannibal had thought the wound between them was closed, after they'd fallen from the cliff. But Will was still bleeding, his empathy and lingering respect for life oozing through the fissures in their scar tissue.

"I'll take you back to the house," he said, turning on his heel and heading for the car. It would be better to leave Will alone with his misgivings. Hannibal wouldn't be wearing his person suit tonight.

 

___

 

Side by side, the two of them sat under the chapel's vast muqarnas ceiling, with its giant inlaid cross comprising hundreds of hand-painted murals dating to the twelfth century. The towering golden fresco of the Christ Pantocrator enveloped them in a solemn stare from the sanctuary dome overhead. Only Death separated them from his dingy post on the floor of the chancel. The skeletal specter's ivory hands were clasped in prayer, its skull turned as if startled by a sound: _Trovare la morte?_ — _sono io!_ Forever the endless question and reply.

Eight-pointed stars shone down and around them from every angle: the honeycomb vaults of the ceiling, the green-and-maroon Cosmati flooring, the Byzantine mosaics and golden Saracen arches supporting the walls. Even Death himself was caged within one. Were they Stars of Redemption, or simply traces of Islamic design? It was known that the _khatim_ possessed the power to ensnare the sapient _djinn_ —antithesis of angels and cousin of mankind. They were the third and last to be granted free will. Now trapped inside an octagram of eventualities: birth, death, regeneration. There was no circumnavigating _those_ corners.

Will knew that Hannibal was somehow transmitting this information directly into his mind as they sat together, wordlessly admiring the muraled arches of the Cappella Palatina's shimmering ceiling. This place had first existed in Hannibal's memory palace; then it had adjoined him and Will briefly in physical space and time. Now, it was a shared room; a wing between the doors of their minds where one could pass through to the other.

Hannibal turned to face him. He reached out to clasp Will's hands in his own. His face was warm—kinder than Will had ever seen it, and his eyes shone with a fierce, almost angelic light.

"The next part is hard, Will."

His brow creased. "What do you mean?"

Hannibal sighed. His hands tightened around Will's. "We have to forgive each other again. _Il momento di trovare la morte_."

He opened his mouth to speak; but before the words could escape his lips, a furious rush of screaming air and tumbling cloud erupted between them, obscuring Hannibal from view and razing Will's senses to blackness.

His sight went dark. The chapel disappeared, and the warmth of Hannibal's palms around his hands was replaced by cold, wet barbs of pain and a tearing wind that wracked his body. Will opened his eyes, gasping. A dark, thunderous sky was spread out in front of him; the muted horizon unfurled below. He was on a hill of some kind, and he was naked. His body was tightly suspended. Something hard was pressing into his back and the flesh of his wrists—wood. And rough rope.

Will turned his head. He glimpsed two wooden fixtures protruding from the ground to the right of him—long, perpendicular planks of pine on which hung two bodies. With a sinking feeling, he realized where he was. _Calgary_.

The thick cord pinning his wrists had drawn blood and cut off his circulation; his fingertips had gone gray. A sick, gurgling sound came from the figure on the cross to the far right of him, and Will saw that it was the Dragon. Blood black as midnight poured from the shredded hole of his throat, and his pale body sagged on the ropes that bound him to the planks. He was dying.

Between himself and the Dragon, thick beads of blood dripped from the bent wrists and ankles of the third figure, spattering the dust below. The man's head was bowed; the elegant lines of his shoulders were limp with unconsciousness. Will knew the curve of that back— _intimately_ , one could argue. He'd longed to press his mouth against the soft bends of those shoulder blades—to slide his tongue down the noble column of that spine—for _years_.

Despite the bite of the ropes and the numbness in his limbs, Will's body responded to the thought. He closed his eyes again, letting the liquid rush of warmth fill him, thrumming alongside the pain. _Hannibal_. He breathed in the name, and it stretched his compacted lungs with an ache that was equal parts pain and pleasure.

"There's not supposed to be a cross!" From below, a high-pitched voice penetrated his thoughts. It was female. Young.

His eyes snapped open and riveted to the ground, where Abigail stood looking up at him. Tears coursed from her sky-blue eyes and down her milky cheeks as she glanced from Will, to Hannibal, to the Dragon, and then back to Will. Blood seeped from under the flowing white scarf knotted about her neck, staining the fabric a shocking scarlet.

"Abigail!" The name cracked in his parched throat. He stretched his crucified body toward her, as if he could somehow close the space between them and staunch the blood flowing from her throat.

"It wasn't supposed to be like this!"

" _Abigail_ —" The syllables were like a mantra on his tongue, behind which no other words would follow. A burning ache overtook him that was greater than the pain in his wrists and limbs, and he longed to be next to her, to circle his arms around her. His daughter. His creation. His nightmare.

"There's no sweetness in death," she said, shaking her head. Her eyes were wide with tears. "Never really is. _I know_."

Before Will could speak, Abigail's face was torn from his vision as another rush of roiling wind and cloud overtook his senses, howling through his brain like a fever.

When he opened his eyes again, he was on the same hill—but alone. Every muscle and joint in his body screamed to life with bright, excruciating waves of pain. He looked down, to where the sharp, tawny curves of an enormous rack of antlers protruded from his bare sternum, suspending him in midair.

He felt squeezed; his lungs were punched through like paper snowflakes. Strangely, the places where the antlers bulged from his flesh were bloodless—almost surgically precise. Was he already dead?

A sharp explosion of pain along his right side tore a wail from Will's throat, and he knew with certainty that he was still alive. He rolled his eyes downward. Hannibal stood on the ground below him, dressed in the coarse jerkin and metal helmet of a soldier. A long maroon cloak cascaded from his shoulders. In his hand was a spear—the tip of which sliced deeper into Will's side as Hannibal twisted the handle. He groaned as a silky stream of blood trickled from the wound.

"Ab—Abigail," he stuttered. "She—she said there isn't supposed to be a cross!"

"Everyone has a cross," Hannibal said, caressing the shaft of his weapon with a crooked finger. "If you'll forgive the obvious analogy. The only thing that changes is how you carry it."

He pushed expertly on the handle of the spear, and Will screamed as the barbed tip tore at the strings of his abdominal muscles, severing them. The pain was ravenous and shocking—it ripped into him like a rabid animal, all claws and teeth. He gasped against the antlers lodged in his thoracic cavity, unable to fill his lungs—and realized, with feverish clarity, that he'd never been so close to death as he was at this moment.

"What kind of broken are you, Will? Show me!"

The spear thrust into him again, slicing through the soft flesh of his intestines. Hannibal grinned as Will's head lolled in pain. Blood and chyle flowed from the wound, along with a sticky, amber-colored substance that looked suspiciously like _honey_.

Through the tears that stung his eyes, he glimpsed two cloaked figures trudging across the sacrificial hill—one tall and broad, the other shorter and slim. The tall figure was dressed in the hickory-hued robes of a monk, and the shorter one wore a long cambric garment of startling sapphire. They came to a stop a few feet behind Hannibal, tipping their faces to gaze up at the agonized splendor of Will's ravaged body.

His mouth dropped in a soundless cry. Two pairs of eyes—one sharply blue, the other a heavy, sullen brown—gazed up at him, their expressions grim.

"Did—did you _invite_ them here? To my _execution?_ " he cried to Hannibal, who had taken off his helmet and was holding it below the gash in Will's abdomen, to catch the fluid spilling from his torn cavity. Behind Hannibal, Jack and Alana exchanged an uneasy glance beneath their sackcloth hoods.

"I know you don't like the soup. But I'm having guests for dinner later, and I don't want them to be disappointed."

The edges of Will's vision began to blur and he blinked hard, trying to clear the deepening fog in his head. The life was running out of him, flowing into Hannibal's bowl, and he was _so_ tired…

"Di—dinner?" he wheezed, his punctured lungs gulping for air. "Who—"

Alana's voice rose from inside her hood. "Not the ones who eat," she proclaimed. "But the ones who are _eaten_."

And then there was no more breath—no light. The earth shook, rumbling within its core. The surface was slipping away; Will's throat closed and he was drowning in empty air; drowning in his own blood; drowning in salt and sea and sound.

The black edges of Hannibal's smile drifted deliriously into his vision, morphing into the hollow, ivory-tiled grimace of _La Morte_ on the Cappella Palatina floor—

—and then Will was sputtering, _heaving_ , as he shot up in bed, gulping chilly lungfuls of air.

Each breath felt like it would crack his constricted chest in two. His fingers scrabbled in the darkness for the gaping hole in his side—but they were met with only ribs and sweat-soaked skin. His flesh was whole and unbreached, and he was alone (unsurprisingly). He sighed, the air rushing out in a sharp whoosh. It was only a dream.

As Will's eyes adjusted to the dimness of the bedroom, each inhale brought his racing heartbeat closer to normal and loosened the skeletal grip on his lungs. He hadn't seen Hannibal since the evening before, when he'd dropped Will off at the castle entrance without a word, and then roared away in the silver Bentley.

His hands stilled on his trembling abdomen as the last psychosomatic sear of pain ebbed from his body.

" _Jesus_ ," he whispered to the dark bedroom, grimacing at the unintended irony of the exclamation. The dream had been more lucid—more _sensatory_ —than any he'd had in years. It was also the first nightmare he'd had in three weeks.

His t-shirt was soaked, chilling his skin and raising gooseflesh along his forearms. The sheets tangled around his waist were nearly as damp; they would need to be changed. Will had no idea where Hannibal kept spare bedsheets in his ridiculously grandiose and oversized house. However, it didn't seem like Hannibal was coming to bed tonight, either, so better to leave it until tomorrow.

His mind wandered back to his dream. Both he and Hannibal had been crucified—but for whose sins? It was heavy-handed symbolism, even for _his_ subconscious. Dolarhyde and Jack and Alana had been there, too. And _Abigail_.

The memory of the crushed look in Abigail's brimming, sea-blue eyes hit Will like a fist to the ribs. He shoved his palms into his eye sockets, sending an explosion of white stars skittering across his sight. He couldn't keep seeing her like this. Her tearful, accusing face tore a hole in the center of him—in the same spot where a blur of crimson and steel had already permanently replaced his memory of her unabashed, sunny smile.

He tugged his sodden t-shirt over his head as he clambered out of the disheveled bed. He dropped it onto the rug, and withdrew another just like it from the bureau drawer. The soft, dry fabric returned some warmth to his prickling skin as he pulled it over his shoulders. _Better._

He searched for his trousers and boots in the dim square of moonlight on the floor. What had Alana said? He remembered nectar and gore pouring from his side in a mingled flow of gold and red, loosed by Hannibal's spear; and then Alana had spoken to him.

 _"Not the ones who eat … But the ones who are eaten."_ The words sounded vaguely familiar—something reminiscent of a line in classic literature. He couldn't place it. Will toed on his shoes and shrugged his jacket on over his t-shirt, wincing as the rough fabric scraped the tender scar on his shoulder—an actual pain, this time.

In his dream, he'd hemorrhaged blood and honey into Hannibal's waiting cup. But he'd also eaten of the Dragon's cooked flesh at his table in Maryland. In another sense, he supposed he'd eaten of _Hannibal's_ body, as well. In the end, then, was he to eat—or to _be eaten?_

Will padded along the carpeted hallway and down the mammoth staircase, his mind whirling with portentous thoughts. He didn't know where he was going—he was simply following his feet.

It seemed that he and Hannibal were marked by more than one color. He suspected they always had been. Nothing gold could stay, true—but the red _stained_. Together, they were like the viscous synthesis of Samson's Biblical riddle to the Philistines: _Out of the eater came something to eat, and out of the strong came something sweet._ Honey in the carcass of the lion.

The late-autumn air was cool on his face, drying the last beads of sweat from his forehead as he stepped outside. He descended the low stone steps of the castle's front entrance and then veered to the left, into the mist-swaddled trees, tracing the wooded path by memory in the pre-dawn darkness.

As he approached the overgrown clearing where the Lecter family cemetery was slowly being consumed by its own tangled legacy, some unseen change in the atmosphere sparked Will's senses. He stepped carefully, avoiding the dry branches underfoot. His brain was buzzing; his eyes and ears were on alert for any sign of movement.

But there was no one in the graveyard—no soul, either lost or hidden; no manifestation nor pretense of life. Instead, a grotesque vision greeted him, looming above the crumbling headstones in a theatrical and magnificent mockery of death.

Will's eyes widened as they traveled vertically up the thick, blood-crusted flutes of the polished organ pipes, to where the disfigured body was impaled upon the standing rack of the central windchest. The man's abdominal and thoracic cavities had been hollowed out, and his genitalia had been chopped off at the root. The three central pipes rose through a gaping hole in his groin and exited through his splintered breastbone, bursting forth in a triton of mangled metal.

The corpse's dark head was pinned back against the triangular walnut frame of the middle windchest by a splintered piece of pedalboard. Will's breath caught in his throat as he saw that the tongue and eye sockets had been threaded through with shimmering coils of what looked like piano—or possibly harpsichord—wire. The silvery strings looped down and around his arms, positioning one limb in a heraldic gesture associated with the arrival of angelic hosts. The other was stretched downward, palm up, in a Christ-like offering of peace. Exactly like the Christ statue in the cathedral.

Will's eyes took in Hannibal's final alternation—his finishing note—with somber reverence: each of the man's splayed fingers was severed at the third knuckle. Long ebony keys, embedded deep into the flesh, poked out in place of fingertips. Danukas Adomaitis' hands would never play the organ—or the flesh of another boy—again.

Supporting the body, the linked windchests of the Panevėžys Cathedral's deconstructed organ were spread in a jagged triptych that gave the impression of wings, feathered by blood-spattered wood and metal. In his mind's eye, Will saw the ingenious juxtaposition of Hannibal's creation and his own—mosaicked wings of lead, wood, feathers, and glass, set within bodies of wood and shell, and sewn together with wire and yarn. Hannibal had _changed_ the organist, just as Will had changed Mischa's killer. Two metamorphoses birthed from vengeance. Two singular designs, merged to form one.

Will gaped at the spectacle before him, unable to tear his eyes from Hannibal's creation. He felt overtaken by the same breathless, consuming bliss he'd experienced in the presence of the vanquished Dragon. Moisture welled in his eyes as waves of rapture and repulsion sung throughout his body, leaving every fiber, every nerve ending humming with awareness. It _was_ beautiful.

"You didn't make this together."

The spell shattered suddenly, and his head whirled in the direction of the sound, to where a person— _Chiyoh_ —stood several feet to his right. She was cloaked in her customary hunter-green overcoat, regarding him curiously. Will stared, his lips parted in soundless surprise. He hadn't even heard her approach.

Chiyoh blinked. She pointed to the corpse of the organist, suspended upon his own pipes.

"Hannibal," she said. "Not _you_ and Hannibal."

He nodded. "No, I wasn—I mean, I just came out here," he said, finding his voice. "Did you follow me?"

Chiyoh tipped her chin in acknowledgement. Her hair was twisted into a loose knot, held back by a pair of blood-red lacquer combs. Her eyes were as cold and reflective as the barrel of her rifle—which, thankfully, she didn't appear to be carrying at the moment.

She regarded Will with a look that suggested his presence in the graveyard was something of an intrusion. "Then, if you didn't help him, _why_ are you here?"

"I didn't know what he did. I just found—"

"No," Chiyoh cut him off, the syllable quiet and sharp as a blade. "Not _here_ , in the graveyard. Why are you _staying_ here. With Hannibal."

Will was silent. He didn't have answer for that. At least, not one he could articulate. Then a terrible thought clawed into his head, and he froze. "Did _you_ help him?"

"No," she said smoothly. "But I can only protect him so far." She gestured at Danukas' body, which was still moist with half-congealed blood. "His caution is fading. Like in Italy."

"I know," he replied, his voice low. "I'm trying to protect him, too."

Chiyoh's eyebrow lifted, accompanied by a barely perceptible twitch of her lip. " _How_ are you trying to protect him? He sees you walking backward every time he takes a step toward you."

Will laughed once, rough. "Well, judging by the way things ended on the train, I'm sure you'd be just fine with me _retreating_."

She huffed, shifting her stance. "Why should the one who charms the snake be concerned with the rat's thrashing? The snake is the creature to be cherished. And closely watched."

Will gritted his teeth. "You must think pretty highly of yourself if you imagine you're Hannibal's _charmer_."

Chiyoh smoothed her gloved fingers down the sides of her coat, then said, simply, "You didn't grow up with him. I did."

Will dropped his eyes. Chiyoh and Hannibal had a strange history, he knew. How well it compared to the strangeness of _his_ and Hannibal's history, he wasn't sure—but he was willing to bet that she and Hannibal had never hunted together. With the possible exception of pheasants, of course.

He looked to the putrefying splendor of the organist's corpse upon its musical pillory. Beyond the clearing, the barest hints of rose and orange peeked between the black scrawls of the trees, coloring the sky with a hazy, preternatural blush. He'd never been able to effectively argue with Chiyoh. Now didn't seem like a good time to pick up the attempt.

He cleared his throat. "All right. Then what am _I_ supposed to be doing that _you're_ not?" The question was more for himself than the woman standing across from him in the graveyard—which Chiyoh seemed to intuitively understand. A flicker of sympathy marred her expression for a singular second. She could tell he was asking for guidance. After a moment, she spoke.

"In Kyoto, there's a place called Nijō Castle. Inside the fortifications, at the innermost ring, sits the shogun's palace. The walls are painted with priceless gold-leaf murals of tigers and peacocks. But the floors are what make the palace truly special."

Will sensed an analogy in the works. He cast a furtive glance at Chiyoh. She was still and pale as a bird in a bush, her dark eyes blinking as she translated the imagery into words.

"The walkways are built so that anyone who treads upon them is betrayed by a squeaking sound. They're called _uguisubari_ —nightingale floors. No one could reach the shogun's private chamber without his attendants hearing. The guards used distinct walking patterns to communicate with each other. And to signal the presence of intruders."

She paused. Her eyes fixed on Will. In the growing light, Chiyoh's face appeared as porcelain—smooth and simultaneously rigid. A breath of wind stirred the sparse yellow leaves on the trees and caused the coils of wire binding the organist's body to sway.

"Hannibal is the same way," she continued. "If you approach his innermost chamber and the pattern is wrong, he will attack."

Their eyes met in the same moment. A wordless understanding passed between them, as they each considered their intricate attachment to the man whose hand had shaped the monstrous display before them.

Chiyoh turned to look at the sunrise blossoming beyond the trees. "Make sure he knows _why_ you've come, before you draw too close to him."

Will swallowed. The loneliness of the graveyard, magnified by the desecrated spectacle of the corpse on display, was almost suffocating. So, too, was the pervasive sense of isolation he and Chiyoh shared, in their own ways. They might as well be children, wandering an elaborate hedge maze somewhere on the castle grounds. Hannibal would be watching from a high window, curious to see if either of them made it out—reserving an embrace, perhaps, for the one that did.

Will felt the gravity of the Lecter lineage, with its centuries of bloodshed and tyranny, pressing down on him—threatening to crush him beneath one of the concrete tombstones. Just like in his dream, the air froze in his chest, sending a spike of panic into his lungs. It was in that moment, with Chiyoh hovering nearby in mutual solemnity, that Will saw clearly what Hannibal had intended for him to see.

The wooden frame supporting the corpse of the organist was planted into the ground between two tombstones. One was a plain block, etched with a name and a single dedication— _mylima,_ meaning "beloved"—and topped with an obtuse triangle roof. He knew this grave; he'd visited it before, years ago. The corpse's upraised left arm seemed to hover in protection over Mischa's small headstone, sheltering her in her rest.

The other stone, situated several feet to the left, was an imposing black pillar—a stark contrast to the innocent simplicity of the child's grave. Several pearl-tipped snails pulsed and slid across the face of the dark headstone, leaving glittering trails of slime in their wake. Will recognized the name on the marker from his time in the Lecter library; it was a name that had come up often in recent records. Simonetta Sforza-Lecter—Hannibal's mother, descended from the Sforza and Visconti families of medieval Milan.

The distended right arm of the organist's corpse pointed downward at the matriarch's burial mound—the palm turned upward not in peace, he now saw—but in castigation. Reprisal. Hannibal's twisted homage to the woman who'd abandoned him, first in denial, then in madness, and finally in death.

The stone was engraved with Simonetta's family crests, in accordance with the tradition of Italian nobility. Next to the Sforza house's heraldic eagle was the image of an enormous, coiled serpent swallowing a man alive, its cruel fangs embedded in the unfortunate plebeian's flesh—the Visconti family sigil.

The ebony-tipped stumps of the organist's severed fingers were fixed so that they pointed at the Latin inscription carved directly beneath the crest: _Vipereos mores non violabo._

Will felt his own fingertips go numb with cold as his brain automatically translated the words—and he knew, with unnerving certainty, that the bloody spectacle was as much for him as it was for Hannibal's dead mother.

_I will not violate the snake's habits._

His footfalls had been heard. He was being warned.

 

___

 

Hannibal brought the glass of chilled _Beaujolais nouveau_ to his lips and took a sip, rolling the dense, fruity liquid along his tongue. His fingertip scanned the Paris Descartes University website's events page on his recently acquired tablet, perusing. _Hunting_.

Outside the study's tabernacle windows, the late November haze had settled over the forested hills and valleys of the Aukštaitijan landscape, winding amongst the trees in dense gray ribbons. It was nearly nightfall, and Hannibal was glad for the fire in the grate and the _vin de primeur_. Little things he could enjoy again, now that he was no longer caged within walls of concrete and tempered glass.

Sampling the first Beaujolais wines of the harvest had been an annual tradition prior to his residence at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. He'd always been fond of the lush Burgundy countryside and the Gamay grapes it produced. Luckily, the recommended [Domaine Jean Foillard ](http://kermitlynch.com/our-wines/jean-foillard/)did not disappoint for his first taste in more than three years.

A stillness had crept over the house over the course of the afternoon—unsolicited, but not unpredictable. He knew that Will had been frequenting the third-floor library in recent days; it often meant the castle was silent for great stretches of time.

He'd discovered a nest in the library on the previous afternoon. A wrinkled quilt had been wedged between a wall and a bookshelf; beside it lay a half-empty thermos of tea and an unopened sleeve of water crackers. From the flattened appearance of the blanket it looked as though Will had napped there, possibly on more than one occasion. However, the setup was more akin to a dog's bed—or to the kind of temporary lodging one might stumble across in an alley—rather than a private reading nook. The sight had made Hannibal's nose wrinkle.

Surrounding the nest were piles of crumbling papers—letters, wills, legal documents, ledgers, and political records spanning centuries of the Lecter family archives—as well as a dozen or so historical and religious texts from the library's broader collection. All of it—the documents as well as the books—had been marked up and dog-eared to near-illegibility. The pages appeared to have been butchered, running red with underlines and addendums. There were even a few illustrations: animals with too many legs, or possibly insects (species indistinguishable), and one large drawing of a human skull with a deplorable overbite. Will had never been an especially talented artist, but his recent sketch attempts were even more unhinged than his clocks.

Despite Will's recent predilection for the library, the third floor had been vacant when Hannibal had checked an hour ago. He had no idea where the other man had wandered to in the castle or on the grounds during the afternoon—and he was fairly sure that Will was equally unconcerned with his whereabouts.

This state of affairs—the spreading distance between them—didn't vex Hannibal as much as it might have, however. Killing Danukas had temporarily soothed his restlessness and unburned him of the heaviness of spirit he'd felt since returning to his childhood home. And Will had seemed to silently appreciate how Hannibal had metamorphosed the organist's body. His old _dėstytojas_ was now forever united with his beloved instrument—quite literally—in a heap of decomposing meat and wood beneath the Aukštaitijan forest floor.

The organ pipes he'd cleaned and saved, and was considering making a towel rack out of them. A simple do-it-yourself project that might spark Will's interest and engage his presence—something that had proved difficult to accomplish in recent days. Will had taken to forcing himself out of bed early in the mornings and was often gone before Hannibal awoke—a sharp reversal of their daily habits in Maryland. It wasn't an ideal scenario, of course; but at least Will had stopped sulking.

Hannibal had also preserved Danukas' testicles, for a fried _huevos de toro_ with sautéed onions, balsamic-grilled zucchini, and scratch marinara—an indulgent late-morning brunch for which Will was, unfortunately, absent. The petite organs had sizzled as his teeth popped the tender, membranous flesh, bringing a satisfied smile to Hannibal's face.

He'd continued to cook for his small household, as well, over the past several days, experimenting more with non-human meats than he had in a long while. Will and Chiyoh (when she was home) continued to join him for dinner. Their nightly meals were mostly silent affairs, punctuated by Hannibal's traditional introduction of each course and, occasionally, by Will's murmured praise of the _plat du jour_. The few short words always sent a rush of appreciative warmth through Hannibal's chest, in spite of the other man's refusal to meet his eyes.

It wasn't in Hannibal's nature to refrain from exploring where a bridge had already been laid—particularly when that bridge traversed both directions. However, when it came to Will, he'd learned that a careful tug was more effective than a hard pull. In some ways, he was the most suggestible person Hannibal has ever known. Will's process—and thus, _their_ process—was a lengthy one, and it had taken many delicate connections of strings to assemble. However, Hannibal was confident that Will's progress would, in the end, allineate perfectly with his design.

He clicked on the university website's  _Conférences_ tab and scrolled through the detailed list of lecture series and names. He was only window shopping, he told himself. Poking around. It was nearly as impossible to predict what he might find as it was to repair a shattered teacup. Besides, it was occasionally entertaining to look in on old colleagues.

He took another sip of the young wine, detecting hints of fig and pear in the fruity mixture. To be properly savored, Beaujolais had to be consumed immediately; to save it was to spoil it. This was, of course, both the delight and the downfall of the vintage.

Hannibal froze, his finger hovering over the surface of the tablet. An implausible—but not impossible—confluence of words blazed up at him in black and white from the screen. Letters and numbers that jabbed his mind like slivers of shattered china. He stared at the text in jubilant near-disbelief, his lips spreading into a slow grin as he twirled the stem of his wine glass.

He'd found the very thing to set Will's strings in motion. The second Beaujolais of the harvest was ready to be poured.

 

___

 

The library was silent except for the shuffling of ancient pages. Soft and wrinkled at the edges, they whispered like velvet between Will's half-numb fingertips. He usually wore gloves when he sat up here, poring over the yellowed compilations of births and deaths, coups and alliances, truces and debts. Today, though, he'd forgotten them, and his fingers were cold.

He'd remembered his jacket, at least.

A domino trail of administrative records and legal documents littered the floorspace he'd carved for himself in a corner of the drafty, walnut-paneled library. Scattered alongside the manuscripts were various historical tomes that Will had carefully and neatly annotated, minimizing his markings on the documents as much as he could.

He needed to understand _all_ of the connections—every circumstance and tipping point of Hannibal's history. The house in which they now resided was the central room of his memory palace, Will knew. It was also the darkest, coldest, and least visited of them all. He'd felt for the latch once, the last time he was here. This time, however, Will intended to tear open the door. It was the key to the _something_ he'd missed before—the complete picture of what had brought Hannibal into the world the way he was—and what had brought Hannibal to _him_.

The stagnation that had plagued Will since Maryland was fading. The once-brittle latticework of his brain was growing full and frenetic, his neurons and axons buzzing with an energy more kinetic than potential. It was as though a hive had taken up residence inside his skull, fortifying it with hardening webs of knowledge and nectar—compiling, creating, _consuming_.

When not in self-imposed exile in the library, Will found he could hardly sit still. He explored the wooded slopes surrounding the estate for hours at a time, mentally mapping the stone ruins that devolved to rubble the further out he hiked. He came back inside only when his face and hands had gone numb and his shoulder ached from trekking across the uneven terrain.

He barely saw Hannibal, except at mealtimes or when Will crawled into bed beside him in the middle of the night—usually to stare at the ceiling until the whir of his thoughts pushed him back into the library's frigid arms. Hannibal was often asleep when he came to bed, and awoke only after Will had risen. For the third time since their lives had collided, they had become a mystery to each other.

He knew this didn't sit well with Hannibal; but he also knew that he couldn't answer Chiyoh's question until he finished the work he'd begun.

If Hannibal had been a visitor to the high-ceilinged library over the past several days, Will had neither seen nor heard him; nor did he have any reason to think that Hannibal had discovered his amassed collection of Lecter family records. He knew the other man had a formidable book collection in his study and spent most of his day there. Besides, Will was fairly positive that Hannibal would've thrown a fit over his markup of some of the library's more archaic volumes.

He blew into his hands, warming them. He was scanning a sixteenth-century reproduction of the _Cronica conflictus_ , searching for mention of the Teutonic knights captured as slaves after the Battle of Žalgiris in 1410. Some of them had been taken by the warlord Hannibal the Grim—an early predecessor of the modern-day version reposing in the study downstairs. The warlord had forced the slaves to build the fortress in which Will now huddled, freezing his ass off. He was used to coping without central heating, but if he had to choose again, he would've picked a smaller bolt hole with a reliable boiler over continuously staving off hypothermia in a drafty castle.

So far, the ethnographic breadcrumbs of Hannibal's ancestry had reassembled themselves into a portmanteau of violent and domineering lineages—families that stained their infants in blood long before they were born. They were warmongers, despots, and tyrannists; but also artists, winemakers, and theologians. The Lecter family tree was carnivorous, dense, and tangled, and it would end with Hannibal.

Will thought it likely that _he_ would also end with Hannibal. It was, after all, their design.

Sometimes, at night, when the buzzing in his brain reached its highest pitch, he would startle awake. In his hypnopompic state, he would immediately reach for Hannibal, half-expecting to find coiled limbs bending over him in the darkness; one hand lifted to silence him, the other flexing a steel linoleum knife. But every time, Hannibal was dead asleep.

Will knew the beast beside him was merely drowsing. _Digesting_. But he'd studied the behavior of wild animals for a long time. The jagged shards of his hyper-empathic mind had always aligned perfectly between the razor teeth of Hannibal's instinct. Lately, however, this had prevented them from biting, from chewing—from _devouring_. In their over-enthusiasm to feast, they had effectively _muzzled_ each other.

Everything was about to change, though. He could feel it in his bones. In his marrow. When Hannibal woke again, Will would already be on his feet, ready to feed.

 

___

 

"Pretty elaborate meal for two."

Will nodded at the silver serving tray, which had formerly held a steaming pork leg roast. Only the leftover juices remained, swimming in whorls of lipids in the bottom of the tray. He brought his wine glass to his mouth and swirled it, once, before taking a sip.

Hannibal smiled at the backward compliment. The leg had been a respectable-sized cut from a curvy, brooding gilt he'd picked out at a local farm two days ago, after discovering Will's sad stash of tea and crackers in the library. He'd sent her to a butcher in Panevėžys for gutting and cleaning, and then carved the rest himself. Chiyoh would enjoy his spontaneous purchase the longest; she'd have enough pork to last through Christmas.

For tonight's dinner, however, he'd prepared the _jambon frais_ French style, with white wine sauce to moisten the meat and Dijon to dress it. Roasted shallots, mixed root vegetables and Pippin apples, cooked alongside the ham, offered an earthy sweetness. Finally, a rich Condrieu to pair, and symphonic Saint-Saëns for ambiance. It was the kind of hearty meal he imagined Will might request—if Hannibal had been the kind of cook who took requests.

In a twist of playfulness, he'd actually _called_ Will on his mobile to invite him to dinner. _I can't feed you if I can't find you, Will_ , he'd told him _._ The sound of the other man's laughter, ensconced in the echoes of high rooms, had melted a little of the frost between them. Hannibal had closed his eyes as he'd listened to Will's affirmative reply, imagining him tucked into his chilly nest in the third-floor athenaeum, dreaming.

Now, between them, they'd eaten almost everything. Hannibal wouldn't have minded leftovers, but keeping Will well-fed had always been his first priority.

"It was less about elaboration than finesse," he said, smiling cordially. "I'm perfecting my roast recipe. Did you like it?"

Will set down his glass and folded his hand over his stomach. "Ate way more than I thought I would. So that's a yes." A satisfied grin flitted along his lips. Will's button-up was in need of ironing and it appeared as though he hadn't shaved in several days, although Hannibal hardly minded. Just having Will at the table, in good humor, was enough.

"Good," Hannibal said, standing up and stacking their plates onto his arm. "Because I've prepared something equally tantalizing for dessert."

Will moved to get up, but he waved him back down. "Stay. Digest. I'll take care of everything."

The other man did as he was bid, sinking back into his chair to nurse his wine.

Hannibal breezed through the double doors of the attached kitchen and placed the dishes in the middle basin of the three-compartment sink, and then returned to the dining room to collect the serving plates and trays.

The dishes were fewer with Chiyoh's absence—noticeably fewer, it seemed, despite the subtraction of only one place setting. Little Chiyoh took up more space in the mind than she did on the earth; her ambiance was always felt, whether or not she was present. She'd set out three days ago for the end of the hazel grouse-hunting season in the forested outskirts of Šiauliai, and would return tomorrow or the next day with four or five birds, and perhaps a fox. She would also leave small, handmade crucifixes—one for each animal taken—on the Hill of Crosses outside the city, as she always did.

Hannibal could predict Chiyoh's habits with ease. Her reliability was part of what made her a valuable companion. But she was also startlingly perceptive, and for that reason her absence tonight was fortuitous. She would've picked up on Hannibal's culinary humor right away, because Chiyoh also knew _his_ habits—better, even, than Will did—and he doubted she would've been amused.

"And now, for the last course— _skruzdėlynas!_ " Hannibal emerged from the kitchen, carrying a plate piled high with crispy, golden-yellow ribbons of pastry. The twists of fried cake were stacked atop one another to form a mound of honey-drenched dough that vaguely resembled a pile of confetti. Slender white honeysuckle buds decorated the outside edges of the tray, adding a touch of delicacy to the heavy dessert.

Will's eyes widened as Hannibal set the tray between their places.

"Or _anthill cake_ , if you prefer the creative nickname," he continued. "A Lithuanian treat, glazed with honey-vanilla syrup and sprinkled with poppy seeds and nuts or fruit of choice. In this case, white raisins, in the Aukštaitijan tradition."

Will whistled. "That's enough for five people."

"Then we'll just have dessert for breakfast tomorrow," He smirked, teasing a grin from the other man as he returned to the kitchen for the last ingredient.

"How do you eat this thing?" Will called from the dining room.

Hannibal swiped the tablet from the standing butcher block next to the stove and strode back through the double doors.

" _Skruzdėlynas_ is a hands-on experience," he answered. Will eyed the dripping pasty stack with skepticism. "We'll have to tear it apart. It'll be messy."

Will's brow furrowed as his eyes alighted on the tablet in Hannibal's hands.

"Where'd you get that?"

"I bought it earlier in the week," he answered, resuming his place at the table and pulling his napkin back across his lap. "Forgive me for interrupting our dessert with distracting technology, but I want to show you something."

Will stared, his expression unreadable, as Hannibal switched on the tablet.

"Will. Dig in. Before it goes soft," he instructed, tipping his chin at the dessert platter. He pulled up a browser tab and navigated to the Paris Descartes University website, as Will tentatively detached a thread of fried, syrupy dough from the top of the cake.

From the corner of his eye, Hannibal watched Will's lips close around the bite of pastry. He could tell by the shape of his mouth and the way he chewed—slowly, testing the texture and flavor; then more intently, savoring the crispy, honey-soaked dough—that Will was pleased with his dessert offering.

He propped the tablet on the table in front of the _skruzdėlynas_ platter, displaying the English version of the university's special events page for Will to see.

"There's a guest lecture in Paris in three days. One I'd very much like to attend. I thought we could take a little vacation."

He trailed his index finger along the listings, stopping beside a blurb of text halfway down the page. He watched Will's eyes widen as they scanned the words:

 _The professors from the Collège de France invite you to a lecture organized by Paris Descartes University and presented by Dr Bedelia Du Maurier, DClinPsy, UNC School of Medicine (Chapel Hill, USA), Paul Valéry University of Montpellier (Béziers)_ _, private practice (retired). This lecture will focus on the influence of empathic over-arousal on behavioral characteristics of autism-spectrum disorders._

Will shot a sideways look at Hannibal. "A vacation? You mean a _hunting trip_."

"Consider it a precursor to a Thanksgiving celebration." He grinned, reaching into the middle of the _skruzdėlynas_ and expertly loosening a piece without disrupting the stack. He popped the dough into his mouth. It tasted just like the homemade strudel he remembered from his youth, growing heavier and sweeter as it cooled—like the honeyed warmth of autumn, or the saccharine memories of childhood.

Will turned to look out the tall dining room windows. Outside, the late-November fog curled around the edges of the glass, threatening to crystallize into frost.  

"It doesn't _feel_ like a celebration." Will wrestled another honey-drenched twist of pastry from the pile, spilling a cluster of raisins down the side. He carefully avoided meeting Hannibal's eyes, seemingly more enamored with the dessert than with his plan. Not quite what Hannibal had hoped.

"Bedelia was looking into guest lecturing when we first came to France, while I was hunting Roman Fell," Hannibal pushed on, despite Will's lack of enthusiasm. "We relocated to Florence a few weeks later, where I assumed Dr. Fell's position as curator and translator at the Palazzo Capponi, and Bedelia became Mrs. Lydia Fell. She still has connections at the university in Paris. Now they've invited her to speak, and I happened to see the announcement." He paused. "Some might say that's serendipity at work."

Will stared down at the tablet—his eyes roaming over the words once more, as if to assure himself of what he'd read—and then back to Hannibal. He frowned.

"Her lecture. She's talking about _me_ , isn't she? Is _that_ serendipitous, too?"

His eyes lowered to Will's mouth, to where a stray dab of honey shone on his bottom lip, untasted. Without thinking, he reached out to wipe it with his thumb. To his surprise, Will didn't pull away. He licked his lip after Hannibal's finger traced it, seeming to savor the mingled flavors of skin and sugar. Deep, Aegean-blue eyes searched his face.

Warmth rose suddenly and keenly in Hannibal's chest. It was, he realized, the first time he'd touched Will in days. The short contact left him aching.

"She may believe she is," he said, clearing his throat. "But you can't be categorized, Will. There's no box that can fit you. You grow beyond your own borders—your own definitions—every day."

"That makes me sound like an _abomination_ ," he said quietly. "Something escaped. Let loose. Something that _shouldn't_ be."

Hannibal brought the finger he'd dabbed at Will's lip to his tongue. Licked it. Hidden within the sugary aftertaste he could taste Will—the hot flick of tongue against his own; the salty-sweet flush of skin and sweat. _Tantalizing_.

"A person may be wild to the world, but still tame to himself." Hannibal lifted his eyes to the other man's face, which, to his surprise, was slightly flushed. The pulse point in his neck was throbbing faster, too. _Not just the Condrieu,_ _then_ , Hannibal thought to himself. The sight pleased him.

"You have a vast and secret strength inside of you. It flows from your sense of self-creation and your tenacity. You bear witness to the entire night sky, but you'll always choose the abyss over the stars' brightness." 

Will eyes drifted over the table, melancholy lingering in their heavy-lidded depths. "If emptiness is what's pulling me, doesn't that make me lost?"

"No. It makes you the shaper of your own strength." Hannibal nudged another twist of cake from the pile. "You can expand any facet of yourself, because you have no boundaries. No preordained form."

He paused, savoring the thick, syrupy glaze of the pastry mingled with the honeyed taste of Will's own skin. "Do you know the Biblical story of Samson and the lion?"

Will started, his eyes widening to two sharp blue circles in his flushed face.

"I—yeah, actually," he said, stumbling over the words. "The morning I went to the, um. The cemetery. It came to my mind. Not for any reason. It just— _materialized_."

Hannibal's eyebrow shot up. It was the first time Will had spoken directly about finding the gift he'd left for him. Will's jaw was tight, his posture rigid; but his eyes were burning as fiercely as the night they'd killed the Dragon. The combination of stress and pleasure on his face was _intensely_ interesting.

"Then you're familiar with it. Good." It appeared that their allegorical thought processes had collided, as well. But then, Hannibal had always been aware of the uncanny symbolic connections that flew between their two minds. Will felt it, too. They shared the same dead language—one that often allowed them to say more _between_ words than withinthem.

"The story shows how strength shapes essence, and how essence, in turn, feeds strength," he continued. Bedelia's wan smile appeared suddenly in his mind—calm, defiant. _I haven't quite marinated long enough for your tastes. But when they come for you..._

"It speaks not only of creation from destruction, but also of _destruction_ from destruction." His voice shape the words, slow and precise. He was vaguely aware of Will watching him. In front of his eyes, a picture played and replayed itself, ending differently every time; a story within a story, wrapped in an enigma. Only time would show the ending to this riddle—their greatest yet.

"A beast dies. A hive is born. A marriage is betrayed. And the heathens are slaughtered." Hannibal closed his eyes, allowing himself to drift. "Death follows the sweetness of the hive, which itself is born from death." He fell silent as he watched their story's victorious ending—his favorite—unfold within his mind's eye.

With a deep breath, he opened his eyes and returned to the dining room, and to Will's inexplicable expression. "You chase after riddles— _my_ riddles, and yours—because you believe that following the story's path will give you strength. But what you've actually discovered is that essence and strength are the _same_."

The other man looked away, seemingly embarrassed at Hannibal's allusion to his library scavenger hunt.

"We're all autodidacts. We seek ourselves in the stories we construct for others. And we become the versions of ourselves in the stories _others_ create for _us_ —not always, but sometimes."

Will chewed his lip, thinking. "So, in your analogy, I'm the beehive. Making nectar inside a carcass." He gave a dry laugh. "Jack would find that poetically descriptive, given some of the things he's asked me to do."

Hannibal sighed. The pictures in his mind wavered and reshuffled. "You don't fly to Jack's gardens anymore, Will. You don't belong to his hive." He traced his thumb along the foot of his wine glass. "A bee may drown in its own honey. But you're no longer lost within yourself." 

Will smirked. "That depends on your definition of  _found_."

Hannibal turned, catching the other man in his gaze. "Do you ever wonder why the Philistines don't understand you?"

"Not usually." Will's voice was sarcastic as he reached for another scrap of pastry.

"It's because _you_  are the honey in the lion. The catalyst for everything that happens after this moment."

Will's eyes were steel-sharp as he returned Hannibal's stare, the bite of _skruzdėlynas_ suspended in midair. He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing beneath days' worth of stubble.

"So—Samson and the lion. That's _your_ version of the story?" His words were quiet. Inquisitive. Almost _too_ polite.

"Only the relevant parts. Too much detail punishes a good analogy." Hannibal grinned, and sank his thumb and forefinger into the dessert tray, pulling out a thick, soggy piece of dough oozing with syrup. The poppy seeds suspended in the amber liquid reminded him of tiny ants caught in a tide of sap.

Will's eyes drifted to his own honey-strewn plate. His face had regained its usual pallor, the moment of arousal between them left to simmer, for now. "So, on this _vacation_. What kind of trap are you planning? Where would we go?"

Hannibal brought his hands together, resting his elbows on the table. "We won't need an elaborate snare. Bedelia is as aroused by the smell of danger as she is repelled by it." He smiled to himself, remembering her parting words: _You may make a meal of me yet, Hannibal._ Her lips had tasted of Lambrusco rosato and oyster flesh—a tinge of sweetness atop a dank, salty secret.

"As luck would have it, the apartment we rented on the Seine has no tenants at the moment."

Will gave a stilted laugh. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised you've already looked."

He smirked. "If I've failed to surprise you, it only means you know me better than you thought you did. The place is in a gentrified part of the thirteenth _arrondissement_. High-end shops and office buildings, side-by-side with old warehouses and factories. Quiet at night. Excellent cheese and wine shops within a five-minute walk, and a greengrocer within ten. The perfect neighborhood for hosting an Epicurean dinner party."

Will tipped his wine to his lips, swallowing the last sip of his Condrieu. He set the glass down and watched the remaining droplet slide along the inside curve of the diamond-and-wedge-cut crystal. Hannibal could almost _hear_ the storm of impending questions swirling inside his mind. To anchor himself, Will would need to make a choice—and Hannibal was prepared to offer one he wouldn't be able to ignore.

"Every meal makes a grave," Will said, his voice going somber. Thoughtful. " _Q_ _uod me nutrit_ _,_ _alii destruit_."

Hannibal's lips curled in an appreciative smile. It was a clever twist on Marlowe. "It's also true that every act of creation is first an act of destruction. Picasso."

Will was silent. He twisted the stem of his glass between his thumb and forefinger, disappearing into his mind. The soft yellow glow from the electric chandelier above reflected in the cut crystal, scattering stars across the table.

"When I came here four years ago, I visited the cemetery," Will said, his voice strengthening. "Mischa's grave was surrounded by tiger lilies. They were right on the cusp of blooming." He paused. "I never got to see them open."

Hannibal cocked his head, contemplating Will and his circuitous, feeling mind. "The regret of the honeybee who's left the hive. It still stings from time to time, after moving to a sweeter course of action."

In a decisive gesture, he pushed up from the table and gathered their glasses. "Of course, the feeling is only temporary. New buds spread their petals as the stems of old flowers wilt. Nature offers fresh and colorful opportunities with the turn of every season."

The crystal clinked as Hannibal juggled the stems between his fingers and reached for the empty bottle of Condrieu. The other man traced the movement with his eyes—silent, unblinking. As far as Hannibal was concerned, Will had accepted his _vin de primeur_ ; the question was settled. They would go to Paris together.

"We'll bring a bouquet of rosemary and violet to dress Bedelia's table," Hannibal said, with a nod. "Blooms at both ends—bridal and burial."

Will's eyes lifted. His gaze was steady. Accepting. _Anticipating_.

"Now, speaking of sweeter courses of action—we can't finish our dessert without coffee. Regular or decaf for you, Will?"


	3. And he came to his father and mother

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A sequel/accompaniment to this story is in the works, and it's gonna be a doozy. It may take some time to finish, so please bear with me :) In the meantime, this fic can be read as a complete and standalone story, as it was originally meant to be. Thanks for reading, and stay tuned for more!**  
>     
> The warehouse in this chapter is based on the [Les Frigos](http://www.messynessychic.com/2012/09/10/abandoned-paris-surviving-through-art/) building. The precise surroundings and dimensions are altered, but all other real places are consistent with the imagery from the series. Also, the opera can be heard at the following link: [_La Vestale._](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iseCDIQnX74) I highly recommend a listen!

 

Will stared out the sitting room's floor-to-ceiling picture window—and into the snarling face of an enraged bulldog.

The dog's distorted, cartoon face was spray-painted over the crumbling orange bricks of the building opposite. Its open jowls encircled a dark double window that served as its throat, and a row of white-painted teeth was etched around the opening, defying anyone to climb inside.

Technically, it was graffiti, but Will appreciated the irony of the aesthetic. Eyes were usually portrayed as the windows to the soul. In this case, though, it was a gaping mouth.

He lifted the heavy window with both hands. Flakes of old paint shook from the frame and dusted over the sill. A cool, late-autumn breeze flooded the seventh-story apartment, chasing away the stale air and stirring the fringe on a nearby lampshade.

Over the flat-topped roof of the derelict building across the alley, the sky blazed in streaks of plum, rose, and indigo behind the illuminated Paris cityscape. He breathed deeply, filling his lungs with chilly evening air. He wondered how long the cartoon bulldog had been there—who had painted it, and why. And how someone had managed to suspend themselves on the outside wall of the high building to do it.

The old factory itself was partially lit by streetlamps but had no working lights of its own, which leant it an otherworldly appearance. And the bulldog-cum-hellhound wasn't alone, either; the entire outside of the building was spray-painted with seemingly random drawings and designs. There were graffiti artists' tags in puffy capital letters; a school of delicate, bronze-colored koi; and a string of what looked like bees or birds zipping after one another in a flash of bold stripes.

A tall water tower loomed at the corner of the building facing the sitting room. It was marked with a single row of vertical windows and topped with a bulbous, cylindrical roof, giving it the appearance of an upturned kaleidoscope. Below an eye-level window near the top loomed a large aerosol painting of a silver-and-gray skull, its black eye sockets crinkled in questioning—or perhaps amusement. It was hard to tell.

Outside the windows at the other end of the apartment, the silky black waters of the Seine swirled and ebbed less than a block away. In the indigo haze of twilight, there was no distinction between the surface of the river and the beginning of the sky.

Will preferred his view.

The building across the alley was an old railway refrigeration warehouse that street artists had claimed as both a canvas and a place to squat, Hannibal had explained. The city hesitated to tear it down, since it had become something of a local curiosity in the seventy years since its abandonment. Apparently Bedelia had hated it. Will could see why; there was nothing explicable about its character.

They'd taken an early flight into Charles de Gaulle the previous morning, arriving in Paris as Andrea Marcovaldo and Bryan Harris-Ressler. The waking sun had shunned the overcast cityscape; the Eiffel tower's beaming tangerine lights had winked off inside a shroud of fog.

Hannibal had convinced the building's proprietor to leave the keys and paperwork for one _Monsieur Marcovaldo_ in the mailbox. Since the new tenant had already prepaid for several months, the man was happy to oblige. Not meeting in person would work out to everyone's advantage in the long run—particularly the landlord's, Hannibal had explained. Will didn't disagree.

The apartment that had once served as Hannibal and Bedelia's temporary home was larger than Will's farmhouse had been in Wolf Trap, and furnished in an extravagant combination of vintage and modern decor. It was characteristic of the style he'd come to associate with Hannibal's various domains. For this reason and others, being alone in the flat made Will feel more than a little out of place.

Leaving Lithuania—and particularly Aukštaitija—had been more unsettling than he'd imagined it would. He'd been reluctant to abandon the Lecter archives and his careful annotations, despite Hannibal's pointed observation that they weren't needed to understand the forward path of Hannibal's story—or _theirs_.

However, the Aukštaitijan countryside had begun to feel more like _home_ than Hannibal's cliffside hideaway in Maryland ever had. After two weeks of roaming the dense woods and the Lecter estate's vast web of archaic rooms, Will had felt as though he'd lived there for years. In a way, though, he supposed he had. His memories of his first visit to the castle were accompanied by the kind of fantastical, furious wonder often brought about by potent self-discovery. The kind that echoed down the hallways of the mind long after leaving.

The fresher impressions of his second stay were still under deliberation, Will decided. He wasn't yet sure which pieces he wanted to keep.

The few words he'd managed to exchange with Chiyoh before they'd left had been hurried, but clear. Then Hannibal had pushed Will and their suitcases into the Bentley, grumbling about the possibility of missed flights. Chiyoh had promised Will her patience and caution—neither of which Hannibal seemed to possess in his rush to intercept Bedelia. He'd even turned down his sister's offer to sauté a grouse for them as a parting meal.

Will had felt the waifish Japanese woman's steel-sharp eyes follow them down the long driveway, enfolding the two men in their cold strength. Then Hannibal's foot had hit the gas, and the lush Baltic landscape melted rapidly behind them in a blur of tall, pointed trees and sloping hills, as they sped toward Vilnius.

Interspersed among the luggage they'd brought with them was a comprehensive assortment of medical equipment: vials of anesthetic and sedatives, wound care supplies, and surgical tools. It was enough to encourage a body's survival through several weeks of amputation. Will's bag, in particular, had been crammed with so much of Hannibal's surgical cutlery that he'd managed to stuff only a few days' worth of clothing into the corners. Hannibal had stopped to inspect his suitcase during their flurry of packing two evenings ago, but had made no comment on the meager amount of personal possessions Will had managed to fit inside. Which made him wonder exactly how much time Hannibal planned to spend _altering_ Bedelia. Would their feast stretch across days, or merely the span of a night?

The number of boxes and bags Hannibal had lugged back from his rounds of Paris' specialty food stores seemed to indicate the former. The walk-in pantry and refrigerator were stuffed with enough food and drink to feed the entire _arrondissement_. Despite his relatively unrefined palate, Will sensed that all of it was pricey—of the finest quality. Hannibal was sparing no expense for this meal; which, unlike his grandiose dinner parties in Baltimore, would be attended by only a few guests. Fewer, perhaps, as the feast went on.

The furnished apartment in which he now sat, staring out the picture window at the abandoned building opposite, was situated on the left bank of the Seine—a fifteen-minute taxi ride from the Collège de France's lecture hall. The sitting room had all the trappings of Hannibal's mix of modern and antiquated tastes: A Renaissance-era armoire, ringed with barley twist, that served as an entertainment cabinet; modern leather couches flanked by carved accent tables; and a plush Persian rug woven with a traditional hunting scene.

The adjoining dining room was similarly decorated. Delicate chenille dining chairs stood at attention around a long mahogany table; cream-colored curtains swept along the angled walls; and a delicate floral chinoiserie motif curved around the doorway to the kitchen, which itself was predictably spacious, modern, and efficient.

The bedrooms were decorated with equal flair, with one wall of the master dedicated entirely to a quirky assemblage of vintage, gilt-framed mirrors of irregular sizes and shapes—an art piece in its own right. The main bedroom had also acquired some new elements since that afternoon. The nightstand had been cleared of its lamp and trinkets and replaced with a steel serving tray from the kitchen. On the tray gleamed a sharp array of knives, scalpels, saws, clamps, and scissors, methodically arranged from longest to shortest. The king-sized bed, in which they'd slept the previous night, was now spread with plastic sheeting. It unfolded stiffly over the plush satin duvet and onto the floor, like a suspended waterfall. Hidden under the duvet was the detached door to the ensuite. It would serve as a firmer work surface than the mattress, which was too soft for the bed that Hannibal planned to make for Bedelia.

They'd pulled a small, Provincial-style dresser over to the bed and loaded it with everything else: syringes, spinal needles, catheters, fluid bags, dressings, and surgical tape. Lined up behind the equipment were tall bottles of saline and iodine, and smaller vials of lidocaine, morphine, and epinephrine. Hannibal had ventured out earlier in the day to collect some additional necessary tools—from where, Will hadn't a clue; nor had he asked. Sometimes the man's ability to procure obscure resources in unlikely places bordered on preposterous.

Topping off their rearrangement of the master bedroom, several heavily-lined waste bins stood around the surgical area's floor space. There would be an amount of unusable tissue. Better to dispose of it neatly, than to clutter their butchering table with scrapple.

Will was a little surprised to find that the preparations didn't disturb him. The hive inside his mind was swarming with frenetic energy, pulsating with a frequency so high that it sent tremors through his limbs. He hadn't experienced this level of _wakefulness_ in nearly a month—not since the Dragon. Every cell, every nerve, every sticky golden synapse hovered at attention, ready to propel his animal brain toward the inevitable consequence of his and Hannibal's consummation—in whatever form it would take.

He'd offered to go with Hannibal to the lecture, under the pretense of providing a second set of hands when the time came to subdue Bedelia. In truth, though, Will was curious to hear what pompous and self-serving conclusions Bedelia had drawn from her secondhand study of his "empathic over-arousal"—an _amuse-gueule_ to the smorgasbord Hannibal had planned for them.

But Hannibal had quashed the notion, claiming that Will was meant to be as much of a surprise to Bedelia as Bedelia was a gift to them. _"No one knows you're alive, Will. She probably thinks I've eaten you by now. Have you ever seen an animal's eyes roll back in its head when it knows it's about to be slaughtered?"_

Hannibal's Cheshire grin had lingered long in the buzzing hollow of Will's mind.

However, Will also knew that Bedelia was just as cunning and opportunistic as Hannibal—moreso, perhaps, in some ways. Her self-imposed emotional petrification leant her a subtle aura of victimhood that Hannibal himself employed from time to time, but had never mastered. Hannibal would not disguise himself this time. And Bedelia would sense his plan well before he put his hands on her. It made her unpredictable, and Will knew that unpredictability was a dirty invitation for chaos.

He gazed at the painted hellhound on the wall of the old warehouse—at the angry glass hole of its mouth—and then to the faded gray skull that hovered like a bemused sentry across the brick of the water tower. Either both were portents, or neither—of that much, he was sure.

The breeze from the Seine picked up, whipping inside the window to caress Will's face with its chilly fingers. A shiver slithered down his back, prickling his skin.

He stood up and grabbed his phone from the coffee table. Thumbing it on, he navigated to his address book, which contained exactly two numbers. He selected the top one and pressed the dial icon. Minimizing the night's unpredictabilities was of the essence. He needed to send a warning.

 

___

 

The blonde, middle-aged woman stepped from the lighted square of the doorway onto the sidewalk. The gloom of the Collège's stone courtyard enveloped her as she slipped under the triple-arched portico, with its regal columns and bronze busts of long-dead French philosophers. Her heels clicked a leisurely staccato on the pavement, echoing off the silent walls—a ricochet of solitude.

The flock of departing attendees had already scuttled through the courtyard, rehashing their opinions on the night's lecture in murmured voices, occasionally punctuated by a laugh or a sharp cough. The woman was completely alone.

From his hiding place outside the gates, Hannibal watched her pause next to the statue of the renaissance scholar Guillaume Budé in the middle of the courtyard. She fished inside her bag, withdrawing a slender pack of cigarettes and a butane lighter. He grimaced as she nudged a cigarette between her lips. _Unexpected_. _Distasteful_. Certainly not the kind of 'smoked' meat he preferred—but he would tolerate it for the present.

He followed her as she sauntered through the courtyard and took a left onto Rue des Écoles, blowing a slender stream of smoke behind her. To his surprise, she didn't stop to hail a taxi. Hannibal kept to the shadows on the opposite side of the street, leaving enough room between himself and the woman's advancing form so that his footsteps wouldn't be heard.

Her honey-blonde hair spilled down her back in soft waves, glowing against the azure wool of her Chesterfield overcoat. The light from the streetlamps shone over her, creating the vague appearance of a halo. From this angle, she looked almost angelic. Almost.

She veered onto Boulevard Saint-Germaine, and then took a short right onto Rue Dante. Tall neoclassical buildings loomed on either side of the street, piled high with residential apartments and first-floor storefronts. Flowerboxes lined the wrought-iron window railings, spilling bright puffs of color against the white shutter doors behind them. This was the Latin Quarter, in all its antiquated glory.

The woman threw her cigarette onto the pavement and stepped on it with the toe of her heel, and then sauntered into a bright, glass-fronted shop to her right. Hannibal recognized it as Le Quinze Vins, the café-cum- _merchant du vin_ he'd frequented during his weeks on the Seine several years ago. The sight of the familiar hickory-and-caramel-painted storefront, with its decorative oak barrel outside the entrance and the etched glass picture windows revealing floor-to-ceiling racks of rare and renowned vintages, conjured a pang of longing deep in Hannibal's breast. He found himself desperately wishing he could stop inside. Reacquaint himself. Take time to sample the owners' recommended Chablis. But tonight, time and necessity were not fluid like wine. They merely _compelled_ him.

He leaned against the doorway of a closed bookstore on the opposite side of the street, stuffing his gloved hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. Paris was less chilly than Panevėžys at this time of the year—although cold was a relative concept everywhere in Europe. He wondered what Will was doing, and if the apartment was to his liking. He knew the other man didn't particularly care for opulence, but Hannibal enjoyed it. Hannibal also enjoyed Will, with his simple fisherman's tastes and his feverishly complex brain. If sometimes he threw a little rococo at Will's aesthetic, it was purely for his reaction—not to see if it would stick.

Hannibal waited, watching his breath drift in cold clouds of condensation toward the street ahead and periodically checking his watch. Approximately eleven minutes later, his quarry reemerged, cradling a tall paper sack in the crook of her elbow. She resumed her walk, and their shadow game recommenced.

He followed her down an avenue that took them within view of the southern façade of Notre-Dame. The cathedral rose majestically across the Seine in an illuminated, Gothic monstrosity of flying buttresses and stained glass coronas, towering above the other structures in its wake. Some evening, he would take Will to see the famous rose window and the point zero plate, from which all distances in France were measured. Hannibal knew the other man would appreciate the navigational novelty of the brass kilometer marker. Maybe he'd kiss Will as they stood upon it together, in the tourist tradition of ensuring a lucky return to Paris.

Someday—if fate was on their side—they might even rub the nose of Florence's golden boar, in a similar fashion. The thought of acquainting Will with his beloved city thrilled him. However, Hannibal knew that this dream was separated from their present reality by an ocean of indeterminate possibilities. So much rested on Will and the decisions he would make.  

He shook himself from his thoughts as the woman turned sharply onto the main artery of Saint-Germaine, picking up her stride. He pursued her down the boulevard, which ran parallel to the river, as they approached the Jardin Tino-Rossi on their left.

The woman veered off the sidewalk and tapped up the steps of the garden's concrete terrace, which was bordered on all sides by peeling plane trees. She crossed to a second set of half-moon steps that led down to a platform at the edge of the river. Hannibal shadowed her footsteps, closing the distance between them. He could smell his opportunity drawing close.

A single lamppost threw a weak glow over the terrace, illuminating a majestic willow tree dripping with golden-yellow leaves. The woman stopped in the circlet of light near the willow and drew her phone from her coat pocket. She tapped twice on the LED screen, and then tucked the phone between her head and shoulder. She murmured indistinctly into the mouthpiece as she rifled through her bag, presumably for her cigarettes. The Seine lapped at the concrete edge of the terrace and receded with a salacious sucking noise, obscuring the sound of Hannibal's footsteps as he came up behind her.

His hand dove into his pocket, and his gloved fingers curled around the hypodermic needle, fondling the glass barrel. He waited until she pulled the phone away and the LED screen went black—and then slid up against her, and sank the needle into her neck.

The woman flinched and swayed, and the paper sack sagged in her arms as her knees buckled. Hannibal caught it—and her—before either could fall.

He plucked the phone from her fingers and tossed it over his shoulder. It hit the water with a soft plop.

"Did I surprise you?" he asked.

Bedelia's eyelids were heavy in her upturned face. The moonlight reflected in bright circles in her rapidly expanding pupils, and her laugh lines creased as her mouth spread into a slow smile.

"I'm only surprised you didn't attend the lecture."

Hannibal tightened his grip on Bedelia's petite frame as her knees gave way again. Bottles clinked inside the bulky paper sack crushed between them as he held her aloft in his arms. Their breath came out in chilly huffs that danced and then dissolved on the air, evanescent. He nodded at the sack.

"Bâtard-Montrachet? Two thousand two?" he asked.

Bedelia's head lolled in a weak nod as the drug invaded her bloodstream, numbing her muscles.

"And the other?"

"Pauillac Bordeaux. Two thousand," she slurred, her eyelids fluttering.

It was Hannibal's turn to smile. His lambs rarely brought such prized vintages to their own feasts. However, this particular ewe was already intimately acquainted with his tastes—and he, hers.

Bedelia sagged into his arms—legs folding, eyes hazy. Her mouth crushed breathlessly against his neck, slack as the rest of her. The touch made Hannibal shiver. He looped his elbows under her shoulders and tucked the wine bottles firmly between his chest and shoulder so they wouldn't drop. It would be a shame to accidentally waste them, now that dinner was in the bag.

"I think a taxi for you," he said, nodding. Bedelia stumbled with him up the half-moon steps and across the terrace. The rough stone scraped the sides of her patent leather heels as he half-dragged her alongside him.

Hannibal raised a hand in signaling as they reached the street, supporting Bedelia with his other arm. "It seems you've had too much wine already, my lamb."

 

___

 

The lilting strains of violins and cellos drifted into the dining area from the stereo in the adjoining sitting room, punctuated by occasional, frantic bursts of flute. A powerful tenor voice swooped in, swelling over the orchestration. It trembled with longing and lamentation, complementing the somber glow of the candles scattered about the room and the heady smell of slow-roasted meat permeating the air.

The scent filled Will's nose, tugging at his appetite and tantalizing his palate. Despite the meticulous and unconventional preparations he'd assisted with earlier in the evening, he found he was actually hungry. No, more than that—he was _starving_. But, given that the short hand of the antique wall clock was now rounding toward twelve, that wasn't exactly a surprise, either.

His eyes drifted across the dish-strewn mahogany table before him. Various serving trays and bowls were already arranged around the edges of the table. They burst with color and texture and scent: bright red lobster tails arranged in a pinwheel fashion, overflowing from their split-top shells; creamy whipped potatoes mixed with dark nubs of bacon; and soft, ivory scallops and mushrooms suspended in a viscous green broth. On the opposite side of the table were green beans and snow peas, tied into individual bundles with their own stems and topped with a fiery spray of orange curls; snails served in their striped shells and packed with buttery green paste; and steaming cabbage leaves with carefully arranged rosettes of warm cranberries decorating their centers.

Slender sprigs of fragrant rosemary decorated the drip plate below the potato tureen, and a cluster of vivid, purple-blue violets leant a surreal splash of color to the snail platter. Neon-yellow stamens poked curiously from the flowers' centers—a twisted visual allegory for the snails' missing eyes.

In typical fashion, Hannibal had outdone himself with the side dishes. The main course, however, was an even more decadent spectacle. In the center of the table, a long, golden-brown leg roast dripped and steamed in its own juices atop a large silver platter flanked by white roses. The meat was wrapped crosswise with broad green leaves pinned into vertical plumes, lending severity and drama to its presentation. Next to the tray, an expensive-looking bottle of plum-red Bordeaux had been uncorked and left to air. Two candles flickered at either side of the platter in a romantic finish.

Tonight, Will thought to himself, death would sizzle in gold and sweetness would swell in crimson—the essences of honey and blood, reversed.

A stirring to his left caught his attention. He turned to look at Bedelia, who sat stiffly upright in her chair at the foot of the table—the guest's place of honor. Her morphine-dulled eyes blinked, attempting to focus. She ran her tongue along her bottom lip— _thirsty_ , Will guessed. Bedelia had been sedated while Hannibal did his work; unconscious, without a fluid drip.

The sight of Bedelia's tongue struck Will as repulsively sexual—mostly as a result of her present appearance. After finishing his alteration, Hannibal had slipped Bedelia out of her surgical garment and into a dark navy lace-and-chiffon gown. The dress was cut in a deep 'V' down the front, prominently displaying her firm assets.

It was the kind of dress he imagined Hannibal might've bought for her during their stay in Florence, for a night at the opera, or a formal party. He hadn't seen it in Hannibal's suitcase, but then he also hadn't watched Hannibal pack. It was possible he'd bought it yesterday while shopping. Will wasn't sure which prospect disturbed him more—the idea of a premeditated gift, or an impulsive, extravagant purchase for the woman whose leg they were about to eat.

He'd watched Hannibal run his hands through Bedelia's long, fine hair after the surgery, freshening her curls. A fluttering sensation had risen in his chest at the sight—like a moth trapped behind his ribcage. He'd been seized with a sudden desire to rip the golden strands from Hannibal's hands—or, maybe, out of Bedelia's head.

The feeling didn't linger long, however. After their work was completed, Hannibal had retreated to the kitchen and Will had tidied up the bedroom-cum-operating room, and then set about preparing the dining room for their feast.

Now, seated next to Bedelia at the table laden with steaming dishes, he felt a serene, heady anticipation infiltrating his consciousness. Hannibal's tender treatment of his former psychiatrist and partner-in-crime didn't matter. All Will had to do was look under the table—to where Bedelia's remaining foot arched anxiously inside her stiletto heel—to remind himself who was serving, and who was being served.

Her glassy blue eyes drifted absently to the kitchen doorway, and then to the platter in the center of the table. She blinked unsteadily, her lip twitching in disgust, or pain, or both. Her eyes widened as they rolled to Will, as if noticing him for the first time.

"It's you. _You're_ here."

It was the first time he'd heard her voice in more than a month. That hypnotic, heavy intonation, magnified by the cocktail of sedatives still circulating through her bloodstream. It was the voice that had drawn Hannibal in for years—had advised him, charmed him, warned him.

"It is," Will answered. His lips lifted in the mockery of a grin. "I _am_."

Her seafoam-blue gaze roamed his face. "I see Hannibal still has his pet rat," she said. "A shaved one." A wan smile flitted along Bedelia's lips, making her appear suddenly less sedated.

Will's eyes narrowed. His buzz cut had grown out to a fuzzy, comfortable shag, although he still regularly scraped off his facial hair in an effort to preserve his anonymity. It wasn't his preferred look—he knew it reversed his age by several years; maybe even brought back a bit of his teenage awkwardness—but the shave and shorter hair made him feel safer. Less visible, somehow.

"Still reckless and twitchy as ever, too."

"If I were you," he said, leaning forward in a guise of confidence, "I'd remember which side of the table I was on." He nodded at the serving platter.

Ignoring him, Bedelia reached for her water glass. Her hand was unsteady; her fingers shook as she drank. A single drop spilled over the edge and down the stem, dripping a tiny wet dot onto the polished wood of the table. Her throat bobbed painfully as she swallowed. Hannibal had last dosed her over an hour ago; the morphine was likely starting to wear off.

She squinted at Will as she set down her glass. "A meal is a temporary event," she said, enunciating each word carefully. The sounds slid neatly into place, one right after the other. "And nourishment doesn't last. Neither will _this_." She gestured at him, and then at the brightly-lit entrance to the kitchen, from which issued the sounds of cutlery and cookware.

Will looked to the kitchen. He wished Hannibal would finish whatever he was doing and join them. In reality, a drugged-out, freshly amputated Bedelia was proving to be an even creepier—and more irritating—dinner guest than in his imagination.

"He's provided everything you need to be the perfect pet," she continued, fixing him with an airy stare. Bedelia's words were pack hunters—stalking syllable by syllable. "Your food, your clothes, your home. Certainly a new identity. Nothing you have is _yours_. You've allowed everything and everyone else to fall away so you can be with him. What kind of relationship do you suppose you're in?"

Will cleared his throat. He took a sip of his own water. Swallowed. "I'm not Hannibal's pet," he said. "Thought that was _your_ job, when you were in Italy."

She laughed. The sound was like an icicle shattering.

"You can convince yourself of _that_ all you like," she droned, lifting her chin half in spite, half in challenge. She leaned toward him, and her heavy, round breasts swayed underneath the scalloped lace folds of her dress. "But don't worry, we were never lovers. Not in the traditional sense."

"I _wasn't_ worried," he said, too quickly. "Whether you did or didn't—I don't care."

Bedelia smirked. "You care. At least, you care that _Hannibal_ cares."

He swallowed. He couldn't believe he was being dragged into this conversation. He thought about getting up and going to the kitchen to see if Hannibal needed help—but then decided against it. Hannibal had asked him to wait with Bedelia, in case she became nauseous and needed to vomit (but _not_ on the table, Hannibal had warned), and promised he'd be out soon. Will didn't want to rush him—not on the cusp of such an important meal.

"Do you understand what Hannibal _truly_ cares about?" she mused, her eyes flashing like sirens through fog. "I don't think you do. Not really."

Will shifted in his seat. He wished Hannibal would hurry up. And he wished to God that Bedelia would _shut up_.  

"He'll wind you up so you dance, and then shut the lid on you when he's tired of watching. He'll become less enamored the longer you continue this charade together, and you'll dance faster to keep him fascinated." She leaned in closer, as if she were sharing a secret with him. " _That_ is the reality of Hannibal's _care_."

As if on cue, Hannibal emerged from the kitchen with serving trays balanced on both arms. His eyes flickered to Will and Bedelia's tense postures, but his smile remained smooth as glass.

Will slouched back against his chair, uncurling his fist below the table. Nail marks stung his palm.

Next to him, Bedelia straightened, immediately on alert. Her eyes tracked Hannibal's movements like those of a rat studying a snake.

"A _dîner_ _du réveillon_ isn't complete without oysters and _foie gras_ ," Hannibal proclaimed, placing the trays on the table with a flourish. The cuff of his herringbone shirt peeked beneath the sleeve of his olive check jacket as he set the oyster tray in front of Bedelia. A carved blood orange spread open in a flower design in the center of the tray, ringed by a spray of pale rose petals—a breathtaking presentation, created solely for their guest of honor.

"And I believe _one_ of us is looking forward to oysters." He grinned, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes betraying a true smile. Bedelia merely grimaced.

In his button-up and simple corduroy blazer, Will felt suddenly underdressed next to Hannibal in his three-piece tweed suit and striped garnet tie, and Bedelia in her sexually aggressive ball gown. He was like a wren, pecking for worms between two peacocks. _This_ was why he usually left dinner parties early. He never felt like himself at them—but he never felt like anyone else, either. Which is how he imagined most people got through dinner parties; by pretending to be someone interesting. Someone they weren't _._

"Still some weeks before the actual holiday, of course," Hannibal continued. "But, since it's unlikely that all three of us will make it to Christmas together, we'll have to celebrate our _réveillon_ tonight." He paused, smiling at his own humor—then turned his smile back on Bedelia.

Will cast a glance up at Hannibal, who didn't return it. The man's entire concentration was focused on the one-legged woman seated at the foot of the dinner table. The woman who had once been his confidant, his counselor, and his friend. And possibly even his lover, despite her claim to the contrary.

The moth wings stirred inside Will's belly—and underneath them, a sear of sour heat uncoiled and spread through his chest. _Your experience of Hannibal's attention is so profoundly harmful, yet so irresistible, it undermines your ability to think rationally._ Bedelia's months-old words clattered through Will's skull like cans across pavement.

"So then. To start, we have fresh oysters on the half shell, spooned over with white wine, and cinnamon _foie gras_ with fig spread, served on slices of homemade sourdough _pain de campagne_."

Hannibal pointed to each dish in turn as he talked, his graceful hands accenting the poetry of his culinary descriptions. This was his favorite part of the meal, Will knew—aside from the actual eating, of course.

"On the table, our other _cadeaux de la mer_ include broiled lobster tails with caviar mousse and Dijon sauce, _scallops provençal_ with porcini mushrooms, and _escargots_ with garlic herb butter. And from the earthen side of the menu, _haricots verts_ and snow peas drizzled with hazelnut oil and garnished with tangerine curls; whipped potatoes with Cantal cheese; and savoy cabbage with honey-poached cranberries, for a splash of holiday color." Hannibal paused dramatically, allowing his small audience to soak in his words.

"And for our main course—a generously provided leg roast. Ethically butchered and organically prepared. A little on the lean side, but flavorful enough for our celebration."

Hannibal smiled to himself as he moved to fill their wine glasses with the Bordeaux. He stopped to admire the label—Château Latour 2000, which probably translated to "expensive," Will thought—before filling Bedelia's glass first.

Neither Will nor Bedelia moved nor spoke. Hannibal might as well have been entertaining a table full of statues—which, Will noted, didn't seem to bother him. But then, he supposed Hannibal was used to the inevitable disquiet at dinner parties where he served his guests to themselves.

"My compliments to the wine-bearer." Hannibal leaned over the back of Bedelia's chair, wrapping his arm sideways around her as he poured her glass. His lips were only inches from her cheek. She stared straight ahead, refusing to meet his glance. "As well as the meat-bearer. And our guest of honor, of course."

Will stared at Bedelia's roasted leg on the platter as Hannibal stooped to pour his glass next. He could smell the other man's expensive, lightweight cologne, although he wasn't as close to Will as he'd been to Bedelia. He'd come to associate the smell with evening and morning; sleeping and waking. The scent both irritated and soothed him.

As Hannibal moved away, he pressed his palm to Will's shoulder in an unexpectedly tender gesture. He could feel the warmth of Hannibal's fingers through his thin blazer, and he involuntarily leaned into the touch.

The corner of Bedelia's mouth twitched up in a faint smirk. She'd noticed—of course. Will fantasized about wiping off her grin with his knuckles.

At the head of the table, Hannibal picked up his wine glass and raised it aloft. "Since our _réveillon_ is out of order with the holidays, we'll also drink backwards tonight. Bedelia's _vin rouge_ for the toast, traditional Sauternes with the _fois gras_ , and my favorite Louis Latour Chardonnay—also courtesy of our guest—with our _tarte aux fruits rouges_. Unless Will objects, that is."

Will lifted his eyes to Hannibal's face. The other man's eyes were bright—brighter than Bedelia's morphine-addled gaze. Her more recent words curled back through his brain, licking and dripping: _"Your food, your clothes, your home … Nothing you have is yours."_

Will shrugged and picked up his glass, mimicking Hannibal's gesture. "How could I refuse?"

Hannibal nodded. "Very well. To indulgence," he proclaimed. "And to _la_ _cuisine française_."

Will tipped back his glass in tandem with Hannibal, allowing the rich, smoky Bordeaux to roll along his tongue. Hints of blackberry, licorice, wet earth, and oak filled his mouth, sparking his senses and sending an instantaneous rush to his head. The wine's finish—spice and cherry tobacco—lingered long on his tongue. This was _good_ Bordeaux—nothing remotely like the bottles he'd occasionally brought to Hannibal's dinner parties. Then again, Bedelia and Hannibal shared an affinity for rare and expensive things—one more way in which they were strangely alike.

From the corner of his eye, he saw that Bedelia hadn't touched her glass. _Refusing to drink to her own destruction_ , he thought to himself. She was feeling brave, it seemed. Or maybe just contemptuous.

Hannibal set down his glass. His eyelids closed, as if in reflection. "I dreamed of that taste in my cell in Baltimore. Frequently." His tongue rolled along his lip, savoring the memory sprung to life. "With dreams, you can make wine from water." His dark eyes opened and locked on Bedelia. "Even shape an entire city out of concrete and glass."

She stared back, her blue-green eyes hard as they measured Hannibal's words.

Wings dashed against the inside of Will's stomach, velvet and insistent. Was it his imagination, or was the expression on Hannibal's face as he gazed at Bedelia almost _fond?_

"Another favorite vintage of yours?" Will cut in, looking to Hannibal—and then to Bedelia, who regarded him coolly. He turned back to Hannibal. "Guess you had to have a pretty large wine cellar in your memory palace to get you through three years."

Hannibal was quiet. Will could almost hear his voice echoing in his head: _Fear makes you rude, Will._

He didn't answer right away. Instead, Hannibal picked up Will's plate and began to fill it, scooping vegetables, potatoes, scallops, and a lobster tail onto one side of the china.

"It _is_ large," he answered, after a long pause. His mouth was a thin line. "Larger, in fact, than the Mileştii Mici cavern in Moldova. The limestone borders there stretch one-hundred-and-twenty miles, all the way to [Chişinău](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chi%C5%9Fin%C4%83u). And there are nearly two million bottles. But the cellar in my memory palace has no borders. The vaults are serpentine, deep, and endless."

He placed Will's plate to the side and picked up the next. Will noted—with not a small amount of smugness—that Bedelia was being served second, despite being the guest of honor as well as the main course.

"The wine there has no taste, of course—the disadvantage of being only a memory. I much prefer the real thing." Hannibal studied Bedelia's plate as he ladled smaller portions of food onto it. After the surgery and the morphine, her digestive system wasn't in prime condition to accommodate a large meal, but Will knew that Hannibal would coax her into sampling whatever she'd be able to stomach. Primarily, her own meat.

Bedelia's face remained placid as Hannibal scooped several slick, gray oyster shells onto her plate, next to the Christmas-like splash of cranberries and cabbage. Her eyes darted between the plate in Hannibal's hand and the platter in the middle of the table. The roast was the only remaining dish to be served.

Will watched as Hannibal repeated the process with his own plate, carefully spearing and spooning the bounties of their _réveillon_ into an aesthetic swirl upon his culinary palette. He finished with a dripping splash of cranberries tucked next to his lobster tail—red on red. Gifts from the sea, gifts from the earth. But none as precious as the gift they were about to receive—the gift of the body.

"Now, for _le plat principal_ ," he announced, setting down his dish and grasping the handle of the steel chef's knife beside the platter. Hannibal closed his eyes and breathed in the vapors from the steaming meat with an audible sniff.

"Mmm. I haven't smelled anything close to _this_ delicious in years." Punctuating the statement, the music from the next room exploded in a flurry of dancing flutes and crashing cymbals, above which the collective voices of a great chorus trembled and swelled.

Bedelia glared at him, her mouth pinched in a firm line that only half-disguised the faint trembling of her lower lip. Her eyes shifted to the knife with a casual air, and then back to Hannibal's face.

Will suddenly realized that Bedelia was _terrified_ beneath her impassive façade. He could smell it—and if _he_ could, then that meant Hannibal could, too. He knew that Hannibal wouldn't let the scent fade lightly. The meat had already been butchered; the citrusy swell of Bedelia's fear posed no threat to their palates.

"Do you know," Hannibal asked, as he sunk the knife into the top of Bedelia's leg, splitting the meat and unleashing a flow of hot juices, "How much sweeter the flesh tastes when the lamb is willing?"

The fingertips of his left hand circled the tip of the roast as he dragged the knife straight down, slicing thickly through the meat until steel collided with bone. From the corner of his eye, Will saw Bedelia swallow weakly as she watched, transfixed. It was a sight that few of Hannibal's guests were invited to witness: the carving of their own cooked flesh.

"Fear leaves traces of acidity. It sours the meat. But the animal who walks with its master to the slaughtering block is prized among the chattel. It also yields the finest morsels." Hannibal flicked his wrist, turning the knife parallel to the thigh bone and slicing the meat from it with a delicate swipe.

"And to whose slaughtering block do you think I've led you?" Bedelia's voice startled Will as it cracked from her lips. It was the first time she'd addressed Hannibal directly.

Hannibal chuckled as he placed thin slices of pink-tinged roast onto each of their plates, balancing the meat between the knife and the tines of a serving fork. "The anesthesia and the morphine may have disoriented you," he answered. "Even so, I think the answer to that question should be fairly obvious."

Will glanced sideways at Bedelia. A faint smile played on her face, as if she were sequestering a secret; he could only hope it wasn't the one he feared. Bedelia was Hannibal's slaughtered lamb and their _plat du jour_ , but she was also a fox—one that could change the color of its coat with the seasons.

Hannibal picked up the two plates and bustled around the table, placing Will's dish between the flurry of flatware lining either side of his charger. There was a long, narrow lobster fork, an array of sterling silver spoons and forks of various sizes, a full-tang serrated steak knife, a slender escargot fork, and a curved, two-pronged oyster fork.

Looking down, Will realized he hadn't ever used a third of the cutlery before him—although any one of the sharp pieces would've been sufficient to slice through the mounting tension in the room. He could feel it leeching into his skin, souring his _own_ meat. Hannibal, however, was either ignoring it—or he was _feeding_ on it. Will guessed the latter.

Behind them, the lead soprano's aria rose in a crescendo of lament from the stereo, arcing over the sorrowful tremolo of cello and strings. Hannibal's arm curled around Bedelia's bare shoulder as he presented her with her dish.

" _Le plat du soi-même_ , Doctor Du Maurier," he said, his voice smooth as the surface of an Aukštaitijan lake in the moonlight.

She turned her face away as Hannibal straightened up. The singer's voice rose frantically, searing to fever pitch before dissolving into a long, heartbroken wail.

"Is our guest enjoying the opera?" Hannibal asked as he settled into his chair, unbuttoning his jacket with one hand. "It's fitting, don't you think?" He took his glass of Bordeaux in the other hand and sniffed it before bringing it to his lips.

Bedelia's eyebrow arched in challenge. "You've gone to great effort to ensure that everything about this meal is _fitting_." She eyed her plate, where dead slices of herself sat cooling amid scoops of holiday seafood and vegetables.

Will stabbed one of the normal-sized forks into a scallop. He wasn't part of this conversation; that was already obvious. He shoved the bite into his mouth, and a creamy whirl of garlic, butter, salt, and parsley danced across his tongue, threatening to assuage his irritation. He decided not to let it. He took another bite, chewing aggressively.

Hannibal jabbed his fork into a slice of roast and sawed his knife across it, slicing diagonally. "You remember when we saw _Le Vestale_ , Bedelia. It was early spring. The cherry blossoms had just opened in the gardens outside the Palais Garnier."

She fingered a wine-soaked oyster. The tip of her nail grazed the underside of the shell in consideration.

"We're not in Rome," Bedelia replied, after a pause. Her voice was calm. "This isn't a reunion, and this place is no longer our temple." Her hand moved from the oyster shell to the stem of her wine glass. She twirled it between her fingers, swishing the Bordeaux inside. "And you're certainly no victor. In war, peace, or otherwise."

"I beg to differ on at least one of those counts," Hannibal said coolly, swallowing the bite of roast and cutting off another. "You're quite savory, by the way."

With his steak knife, Will sawed off his own bite of Bedelia's thigh. His teeth and tongue embraced the meat, savoring the heady, flavorful mix of spices and herbs—among them rosemary, he noted. A hint of garlic provided a pungent contrast to the unusual sweetness of the roast. Hannibal was right—an obedient animal _did_ make for a more agreeable meal, all around.

"Delicious," Will said, between swallows. Hannibal's eyes shifted to meet his. The lingering hurt from his earlier remark about the wine cellar was startlingly visible in their dark brown depths. A small surge of guilt flitted through Will's consciousness, and then disappeared as the other man looked away, ignoring the compliment.

Hannibal viciously swirled his Bordeaux, leaving angry legs dripping along the inside of the glass. "You haven't touched your meat," he told Bedelia, hurtling the statement down the length of the table like a throwing knife. "It's rude to refuse the gift of food. Especially when one is so intimately connected to its origins."

Bedelia took another swallow of her wine. From where Will was sitting, it seemed as though she'd decided to get herself good and drunk on top of the morphine, rather than participate in the meal. He also knew that Hannibal wouldn't allow her to leave the table without tasting herself.

"I've decided to go vegetarian," she replied, her mouth twisting into a curt smile. She set down her wine glass, and the movement squeezed her half-bared breasts together inside the open front of her dress. Will saw Hannibal's eyes drift down, lingering on her cleavage before moving back to her face.

Bedelia's eyes were defiant and slightly hazy—but also hyper-aware beneath their clear blue surfaces. Will could sense a small storm gathering strength behind her blown pupils. He refilled his own wine glass with the Bordeaux, ignoring their guest's nearly empty one.

Hannibal sighed. He set upon his broiled lobster tail with a knife and the needle-like fork, prying the flesh from the split shell.

"So you've taken up smoking, and given up the pleasures of flesh." His tone was flat. Irritated. "It seems you've abandoned your instinct for self-preservation. And become simultaneously confused about which vices are worth pursuing."

"Not all pleasures, no," Bedelia shot back. "And I've always considered pleasure to be a virtue, not a vice." She paused, resting her manicured fingertip on the foot of her wine glass. "But it's not as though you ever went so far as to understand what _pleasure_ meant to me. Though I suspect, at times, you wanted to."

Will glanced sharply from Bedelia to Hannibal. The other man's eyes had gone dark and cold. The muscles of his jaw flexed in annoyance as she smiled, trailing her index finger up the bowl of her wine glass in a flirtatious gesture. Will was struck with the sudden urge to shove every oyster shell on Bedelia's plate into her mouth at once, breaking her perfect white teeth.

He picked up his escargot fork and stabbed into the buttered flesh of a snail instead.

"It should be _obvious_ by now that you and I have different definitions of pleasure, Bedelia," Hannibal said, his voice strained.

"I can see that," she said, shifting her gaze to Will. Her eyes lingered suggestively, combing Will's face with something akin to amusement.

"But it's a little late now to be engaging in a battle of wills. Don't you think?" she asked, turning back to the other man.

Hannibal rested his wrists rest on the table. His knife and fork were suspended upright, forgotten. The curve of his mouth had lost all trace of cordiality, and he had gone very, very still.

Will's shoulders stiffened. He swallowed the half-chewed bite of snail in one gulp.

"Or is it a battle of _Will?_ " Bedelia continued, emphasizing his name with a melodic slur. "The same one you've been fighting with yourself since the beginning? You may think I'm disoriented, but that is _nothing_ compared to the way you've allowed Will Graham to dislocate your emotional compass. He is your magnetic field. Your solar wind. And he will continue to spin you around, until you're too dizzy to steady yourself."

Her head jerked in Will's direction. "And _you_ ," she continued, leaving no space for either of the men to censure her. " _You_ will assume that he's your partner. Your intimate. That he will act in intimate ways with you."

She paused, swallowing. The effort of so much speaking was weighing on her. "Hannibal will give you the _illusion_ of intimacy. And you'll give him the illusion of belief, under the assumption that illusions will eventually transmute into authenticities."

Will's eyes narrowed. "Was this in your _lecture_ , Doctor Du Maurier? Or are you just making this up as you go along?"

"You will assume all of this, as I once assumed it," Bedelia continued, vaulting over Will's question. "But you'll be wrong in that assumption." From across the table, Hannibal stood up from his chair. His linen napkin fluttered to the floor.

"What Hannibal does—and will do—is _use_ you."

The fingers of Will's right hand tightened around the handle of his steak knife as Hannibal rounded the opposite side of the table—his movements slow, dangerous. Bedelia's eyes flitted to his approaching form, and then back to Will.

"What's truly tragic about _you_ , Will Graham, isn't that you _allow_ what Hannibal does to you. It's how much you seem to _enjoy_ it."

She glared defiantly, her hands curling into fists beside the bandaged stump of one thigh and the strong, slender curve of the other.

Prickles of heat rose along Will's body, simultaneously electrifying and numbing him. He felt himself involuntarily rise from his own chair as the buzzing in his brain amplified to a frenzied, roaring drone.

"If you'd like to keep your mandible in working order, I advise you _shut it_ ," Hannibal growled, his palm curling around the pointed handle of his lobster fork as he stalked toward her. The candles on the table flickered as his movement disturbed the air. "Or you won't have to wonder how Neal Frank felt when he was dying."

Bedelia's head darted between the two men advancing on her. She tensed. Then her right shoulder jerked up. In the instant she swung her arm, Will's eye caught a gap in the row of flatware surrounding her plate, which he could see now that he was standing. Her oyster fork was missing.

Before Will could stop her, Bedelia plunged the two-pronged fork into the meat of Hannibal's thigh with a furious cry. Her hands closed over the silver handle, shoving the tines in deep. A strangled shout escaped Hannibal's mouth as he staggered backward. Two scarlet points blossomed across the fabric of his trousers where the utensil was lodged in his flesh.

"Go to hell!" she screamed, her eyes blazing.

Without thinking—of himself, or of Hannibal, or of the warning message he'd sent earlier—Will took one long stride and swung the steak knife in his hand, burying it deep below Bedelia's sternum. She writhed as he yanked his wrist upward, tugging the blade sharply to the left. A hot spray of venal blood issued from the jagged slash in her chest, right between her perfect breasts. Bedelia's head snapped back against the chair, eyes rolling upward in agony.

"Will!" Hannibal's eyes shot to his, lightning-bright. His fingers closed around the slippery neck of the oyster fork and tore the utensil from his leg. It fell to the hardwood with a sharp ting.

Will turned his gaze from Hannibal back to Bedelia's twitching body, which was sagging sideways against the crimson-stained chair. A river of dark, syrupy blood leaked from the handle of the knife, spilling over the bright 'V' of flesh exposed by her dress.

The morphine shine faded from her eyes as her lungs hiccoughed absently for breath. The sliced cardiac vein had unleashed a deadly torrent of fluid throughout her thoracic cavity, effectively drowning Bedelia in her own blood.

The frenetic buzzing in Will's brain slowly quieted, giving over to the clamor of the opera's chorus. Voices surged against the siren-like wail of violins, French horns, and rumbling bass drum, seeming to either praise or condemn the act to which they'd just born witness.

He looked down at his hands. His palms and the undersides of his shirt cuffs were drenched in red.

Hannibal limped toward him, a pained grin spreading across his face. "Will," he repeated, reaching out to grip his elbows with both hands. He was breathing hard, and his normally neatly slicked hair hung in shaggy strips across his forehead. "I didn't think that was in you."

Will looked down between their bodies, at where the two dark holes in Hannibal's pants leg were leaking thin, parallel streams of blood. "I guess we both surprised you, then," he said, lifting his eyes to meet Hannibal's dark gaze. Will's lips curved in a tremulous smile as, behind them, a final, gurgling exhale escaped Bedelia's throat.

The other man moved closer, tightening his fingers around Will's shoulders. The strains of the dueling tenor and soprano were audible beneath their ragged breaths as they stood, locked together in a half-embrace. It was the same as on the bluff, but with their positions reversed; the shards and splinters of their shattered intimacy finally regathered.

In his next breath Hannibal closed the space between them, his lips crushing against Will's with slick urgency. He pulled Will's hips into his— _hard_ —and there was no mistaking what kind of reaction his impulsive vengeance had inspired. Heat flooded his body at the rough contact and he kissed back, wings drumming a hollow tempo low in his belly.

Will slid his palms, slick with blood, along Hannibal's jaw, feeling the muscles move beneath them as Hannibal sucked at his lip. His hands curled around the soft nape of his neck as the other man's fingertips pressed into the small of his back. Will almost felt as though Hannibal were trying to pull him through his body and out the other side, impaling him on his fever-sharp touch. Where did he begin and Hannibal end? It didn't matter anymore.

Then the backs of Will's thighs hit the table, as he pulled closer and Hannibal pushed. The other man tugged at Will's belt buckle—insistent, _impatient_. His hand brushed Will's stiffening cock through his khakis and Will moaned—a low, strangled sound. Hannibal grinned against his lips, seemingly pleased at the reaction. Their tongues lashed together, wet and hungry, without tenderness or finesse; only _heat_ , _need_ , _now_.

Then Hannibal gripped Will's hips, moving to turn him around—only feet from Bedelia's stilled, cooling corpse.

"No," Will said, the syllable tearing out in a husked whisper as the other man's lust-darkened eyes searched his face in surprise. Will licked his lips. They were dry. "Not like this. I want to _touch_ you."

Hannibal leaned in, his flushed lips ghosting across the scarred flesh of Will's cheek. "As you wish, then," he said, low. He slid his palm down Will's forearm, his fingers circling loosely around his wrist. Limping, he pulled him toward the sitting room. The master bedroom and its myriad of mirrors lay beyond, offering a gentler and more yielding bed than the one they'd made for Bedelia earlier in the evening.

A trickle of guilt seeped into Will's consciousness as he allowed Hannibal to lead him. He cast a look over his shoulder at the ivory-skinned, red-ripped corpse of Bedelia Du Maurier, crumpled at the foot of the table. Her honey-golden hair hung in tangled curls across her face, obscuring her features. Bedelia had once told Will that she believed him, when no one else had. And that Hannibal _hungered_ for him.

He wondered if, despite everything he knew and everything he wanted to believe, Hannibal had also hungered for Bedelia—in more than just the literal sense.

The other man tightened his grip around his wrist. "Don't go inside yourself, Will. Don't think. Come with me."

Will followed, his pulse hammering and his blood racing with death. _Don't go inside._ For Hannibal, for tonight, he would try.

 

___

 

The door to the bedroom slammed shut as Hannibal shoved Will up against it. He couldn't find enough skin for his hands to grab. Will's mouth was wet, so wet, and tasted of golden-roasted thigh and delicate snail flesh. He pinned the other man's arms over his head with one hand, and pushed inside his button-up shirt with the other, clutching the smooth muscle of his lean side. Will writhed, mouth open. His hips ground against Hannibal's, heightening the friction between them.

Hannibal thrust a knee between Will's legs, wedging them apart and wincing at the fresh wound in his thigh.

"Clothes—we need—" Will gasped, his voice hoarse; but Hannibal had already anticipated his thought. He grasped the front of Will's shirt and tore it open at either side, flaying the cloth from his body and sending small pearly buttons skittering across the floorboards.

"Too much restraint for one evening," he snarled, snapping at the underside of Will's sandpapery jaw. He slid both the shirt, and the blazer atop it, from the other man's shoulders, leaving his chest bare.

Will nipped back sharply, catching Hannibal's lower lip in his teeth. Hot breath seared across his cheek as Will's hands tugged at the lapels of his tweed jacket. He closed his hands over Will's, helping him to pull it off and allowing it to drop to the floor—something Hannibal only permitted in situations like this, as he was normally fastidious about his suits.

He undid the buttons of his vest and dress shirt with one hand, digging the other into Will's boxer-briefs and kneading the flesh of his ass and the hard, sloping ridge of his hipbone. Their foreheads bumped as the other man's hands groped at his trouser zip. It appeared Hannibal wasn't the only one who was feeling impatient.

Hands tugged off shoes and socks, leaving a trail of discarded footwear to the bed, which Will had divested of the ensuite door after Bedelia's surgery. A scattering of syringe wrappings and steel surgical equipment still littered the top of the dresser-cum-work table. In their rush to the bed, Will's hip bumped against the corner of the dresser and he stumbled backward onto the mattress, planting two perfect crimson handprints on the ivory satin duvet.

Hannibal grinned as he climbed over Will's prone body, his erection bobbing. The other man's eyes were glassy, overtaken with lust. His arms reached up, trembling—a small, brown bird exposed against the snow.

Hannibal noticed, with surprise, that the ridges of Will's ribs were visible beneath his flesh. Somehow, he'd lost weight. Next time, Hannibal would have to ensure that Will finished his dinner. This time, however, he would excuse him for skipping to dessert.

Straddling Will's hips, Hannibal coaxed him higher as his knees slid into the bloody smudges left by Will's handprints. His own blood ran in a dark rivulet down his thigh, mixing with the stains on the bedspread. Only Will's blood was missing from the mix, Hannibal thought with amusement. But his face and forehead were flushed with it—his lips warm and dark as Hannibal pressed his own against them.

Will's body lifted at the kiss, brushing their erections together. The contact sent a spike of heat through Hannibal's groin. It was, he realized, the first time they'd been completely naked together, skin to skin, eye to eye.

"Please, Hannibal— _now_ ," Will's voice was heavy as he exhaled against Hannibal's cheek, rolling his hips in a fluid thrust. No wine in the world was as intoxicating as this. And nothing in the world could've prepared Hannibal for the intoxication of a fully, _furiously_ aroused Will Graham. This could be dangerous for them both, he mused.

"So polite," he teased, his voice sliding to a silky whisper. "And so _hungry_."

A sheen of perspiration glistened on Will's forehead and Hannibal darted his tongue out to taste it, relishing the salty, earthy flavor of the other man's skin. He'd missed that when they were in Lithuania—when they'd been orbiting their separate spaces in the castle; in their minds. Now they'd crashed together again, their bodies primed and triggered to devour each other's in what Hannibal generally considered to be the second-most intimate way two bodies could.

" _Hannibal_." Will's tone was insistent. Bordering on bossy. It made Hannibal smile.

He lowered his head, brushing his lips across Will's. "No. I'm going to make you forget my name tonight." The other man's eyes widened, a quizzical look brightening their blue depths. "One more time," Hannibal said, his voice low as he ghosted a kiss across Will's jaw. "Like you tried to, but never could. Not even after three years."

They were heavy words—a promise nestled within a threat, dredged up from the well of hundreds of empty days, from the glass-and-concrete silence of solitude—but they had the desired effect. Will's lips parted, a lost syllable hovering there, and Hannibal knew that he understood. What Hannibal was giving him now, he was giving him to keep. And this time, he would make sure Will remembered that it was _his_.

Hannibal moved his knee between Will's legs and nudged the pale flesh apart, smearing the blood from his twin stab wounds along the inside of the other man's thigh. His punctured muscle burned and stung in small, glorious throbs as he painted Will's skin, marking him. _Claiming_ him.

Just as Bedelia had stamped Hannibal with her fury, Will had ended her with his own. Hannibal would continue their triangular dance of blood and wrath with a different kind of death—the kind celebrated by poets and mystics. The throes of passion, translated into violence. _La petite mort_.

He curled his arm around the underside of Will's knee and lowered his head, not stopping when Will's thighs quivered at the press of lips against sensitive skin. With a lazy tongue, Hannibal licked a slow stripe through the mess of blood high on the other man's thigh, smearing it like a watercolor. He angled inward, dragging his tongue along the crease separating Will's leg and his groin, just below his smile-shaped scar. The touch caused Will's erection to jerk with pleasure.

Smells and tastes and sounds infiltrated Hannibal's heat-flooded consciousness: the thick, coppery flavor of his own blood; the earthy, sweat-damp perfume of Will's over-warm skin; the choked inhale of breath above him; the loose slide of limbs against satin. Hannibal dragged his lips lower, behind the curve of Will's balls and between his buttocks, parting the flesh there. His tongue found the small, tight knot of flesh and teased it, coating it with his saliva. A sharp gasp came from above as Hannibal swirled his tongue in a leisurely circle, coaxing the muscles to relax. He pushed inside, licking at the deep, dark flavor of Will's body. _Intoxicating_.

On either side of Hannibal's head, Will's thighs were shaking. The tiny vibrations shuddered throughout his body, all the way to his core. Hannibal smiled as he felt the inner muscles quiver around his tongue. He pressed his palms to the backs of Will's thighs and spread them wider. He closed his eyes, imagining the other man's face above him—eyes squeezed closed, jaw slack, brow crinkled in concentration. Hannibal had always loved the way Will looked when he was trembling.

Will tightened his grip on Hannibal's shoulders, smearing the remains of Bedelia's blood from spine to shoulder blade. He exhaled languidly.

" _God_."

"Yes?" Hannibal quipped, lifting his head. He ran his tongue along his lips, meeting Will's unfocused gaze with a smirk.

Will chuckled and shifted his legs. His face was pink. The sight made Hannibal smile. It seemed Will liked this, and not only a _little_. He knew that touch-averse people were sometimes resistant to being handled; they could be skittish, like abused animals. And although Will wasn't a fidgety lover, he did appear to be a somewhat naïve one. Hannibal would've guessed that some adventurous girlfriend had gotten to his ass sooner. It appeared not.

"Feeling relaxed?"

Will blew out shakily. "I feel … mmm. That was, um, _new_."

"Good," Hannibal said, moving up and planting his hands on either side of Will's head. He dipped his hips down, brushing against Will's straining erection. "Tonight is a celebration of new things. And some familiar ones, _made_ new."

"Then _celebrate_ me," Will deadpanned, his words breathless— _voracious_ —as he pressed on the dip in Hannibal's spine, urging him down against his body. Will wanted him, and he wanted him _now_.

"Getting feisty, Will. Hold on." Hannibal licked his lips and reached over to the nightstand drawer, to retrieve the tube of surgical lubricant he'd brought with him. It had several practical medical purposes, of course, but Hannibal had hoped the opportunity would arise for an alternative one.

He squeezed a dollop into his palm and slicked himself with it; then slid his hand between Will's thighs, which opened wider at his touch. The other man squirmed a little at the chilly sensation, his body still humming with anticipation. With his fingertips pressed against his spit-slick entrance, Hannibal waited until Will had stilled completely, before dragging his hand in a slow sweep up to his perineum, coating him with the creamy gel.

Will's breath caught in his throat. Hannibal lowered his head to nip at his lips as he eased his index and middle fingers inside, massaging the muscles looser in short, deliberate circles. Tonight, he would make sure Will's body gave both of them everything they deserved. The other man's instincts were ruling him now, and Hannibal intended to match every note of their savage melody with expert hands, hard hips, and a ravenous mouth. He would feed Will his pleasure alongside his pain—as he always had, as he always would.

"Feels good," Will mumbled, his voice honey-thick.

"It will feel even better," Hannibal assured him, withdrawing his fingers and climbing up to position his body over Will's. There was a moment of stillness, during which their heated breaths whispered over each other's—a susurrus of sound in the silence of the apartment. The opera had ended; they were alone with the music of their own flesh and heat.

Their eyes locked on each other's—deep brown on gray-blue, pupils blown black with desire. Hannibal shifted Will's leg over his hip and moved, heavy and fluid, his eyes never leaving the other man's face. A sharp inhale punctured the silence as he sank in, inch by agonizingly slow inch; Will's eyelids fluttered closed, arrested by the sensation. Hannibal's own thoughts disappeared, and he bowed his head in concentration as Will's warmth closed around him. The feeling was a hundred times magnified at the slower pace; he felt as though he were being lifted up on a warm cloud, into a thicker, more humid atmosphere.

Will's muscles tightened as Hannibal pushed deeper inside, filling him. It had been many days since the other man's body had opened for him, and the last time hadn't been gentle. But Will would see that Hannibal _could_ be, when he wanted to. He splayed his fingers against his side in a soothing gesture, murmuring reassurances. Will's body immediately relaxed—almost as if on command. _Interesting._ Then again, for someone who hadn't ever found himself in such a situation until he'd found himself in it with Hannibal, Will was surprisingly physically receptive. Even moreso, it seemed, when they were face to face.

In this, too, flesh was often sweeter when the lamb was willing, Hannibal thought to himself.

He sank against Will's chest with a muffled grunt, now fully sheathed inside him. The blood he'd smeared on the other man's leg had created a slippery film between Hannibal's hips and Will's thighs and stomach, and the heady smell of it mingled with the salt-slick, pheromone-drenched fragrance of their joined bodies. Hannibal knew he would never forget the earthy decadence of their combined essence, because he planned to store it a special place in his memory palace for safekeeping—forever.

"You like us like _this_ more," Hannibal panted, kissing the question along Will's lips as he moved inside him, slow.

"I like _you_ like this more." Will's breath was hot and thready against his jaw as Hannibal's lips grazed his brow, and he could feel the rhythm of the other man's heart overlaid with his own, thumping like a wild thing caught in a snare.

Hannibal was fully aware that Will's senses were being overwhelmed, but in a different way than their first time, in the kitchen. For the acutely empathic, sex could also be mind-blowing when intensely pleasurable—and in this, Hannibal intended to take Will to his breaking point.

He moved harder, drawing out slowly and thrusting back into Will's body with more insistence. The other man rolled his hips experimentally, seeking rhythm, as he wrapped one leg around Hannibal's side. Hannibal noted, with curious awareness, that the pressure was already building in his groin. Perhaps Bedelia had been right about Will's impact on his inner navigational systems.

Will's hand snaked around the back of Hannibal's neck and pulled him down—against the flesh of his scarred shoulder, against the blazing heat of his body—sewing their skins together with sweat and smeared blood. He _wanted_ him; needed him _closer_.

A ripple of dizzying pleasure spread through Hannibal's body, shattering his remaining reserve. _Will_. _Will. Will._ The name connected his thoughts from one moment to the next—as it had in Baltimore, as it had during their silence in Aukštaitija. As it did now.

A strange ache threaded into Hannibal's mind then, twisting and lacing through the place where his emotions joined his calculations. The crack that Will had opened in him so many years ago widened—a dark, vertical jag in a pillar of pleasure. Cracks were not always weaknesses, though. He'd once reminded Beverly Katz of that very fact. Cracks also required strength to sustain them—strength to keep them from splitting completely, and toppling they monument they had overtaken.

Hannibal thrust deep into Will's body, his hips slamming against the swell of his ass. Their momentum was building fast, prying both of them apart in a blissful, heavy ache of simultaneous separation and conjoining. The sounds falling from Will's lips grew more breathless and urgent, echoing around and within and below him. They rooted Hannibal to Will's trembling body, to his humming, hypersensitive brain. He longed to tear out those sounds with his teeth and swallow them whole. To keep them safe—secret— _alive_.

As the waves of liquid heat rippled inside him, Hannibal mused that perhaps it was the unknown agonies they could not yet feel—the distant promise of death—that had refined their awareness of pleasure, and that would drive them to greatness. Death might open the door for him at any time, in any place; he knew this as certainly as he knew that his penchant for serving mortality to the pigs of the world would never dissipate. He also knew that as long as Will remained with him, he would always be invited inside death's door alongside him.

Hannibal eased his hand between their bodies and curled his still-slick palm around Will's cock, stretching the skin over the engorged flesh. He brushed the silky head with his fingertips, coaxing a guttural groan from the other man's throat.

Will shifted his hips, at once giving Hannibal more room and allowing him to penetrate him at a deeper angle. He was thrusting hard against him now, one sweaty calf curled around Hannibal's back, matching his roughening rhythm with fervid intensity. From the periphery of his vision, Hannibal could see the two of them reflected in the scattering of accent mirrors on the wall—a kaleidoscope of writhing flesh, trapped inside a shimmering spray of glass. Art in motion.

"You—your hands," Will stuttered, inhaling sharply, "Mmmh, they're—" but his words fell off there, dissolving into a low moan as Hannibal stroked him again, and again, and grazed his teeth along the salty edge of Will's jaw, leaving a thin trail of saliva.

Hannibal marveled, as Will's body rolled beneath his like a wave, at the way that physical intimacy could unite two people without words—the great shapers of reality. In a sense, to be intimate with another was to be _outside_ _of_ reality. To experience a formlessness of the self. If Will wanted that kind of communication—if it helped him reach through himself, and into Hannibal—then he would continue to offer it. They would find each other in their fused formlessness; in the raw, Cimmerian shade of their shared abyss.

"You were with me every moment of the last three years, Will," he said, his voice cracking as the words tumbled out in a stark, unexpected admission. He brushed the marred flesh of Will's cheek with his thumb. "Every time I thought of you, I felt warmth. I was touched by light." With his right hand, he stroked Will faster, coaxing his body to a flushed, shuddering peak. The other man's head tipped back, his brow furrowed almost as if in pain.

"I imagined I was there." Will's voice was a ragged whisper as he opened his heavy-lidded eyes. They were glistening. "I—I _wanted_ to be."

Hannibal's breath caught in his throat as the bottomless, sea-dark depths of Will's eyes tore through him—and then the vibrations deep in his belly spiraled into a feverish roar. His orgasm overtook him in a tidal wave of heat and fury, followed a fraction of a second later by Will's own.

Will shuddered underneath his arching body, his fingers scraping at the nape of Hannibal's neck and twisting into his hair hard enough to tear it. A husked cry escaped his lips, entwining with Hannibal's sharp moan.

He buried his face in the crook of Will's neck, his mouth crushing against the soft, sweat-slick skin between Will's ear and jaw. Time and breath were suspended. Motionless. From the heights of their orgasms they plunged into the abyss, and from the depths of the abyss they struggled back up, gasping as they broke the surface.

A moment passed; a heartbeat. Then— _quiet_.

The ragged rise and fall of their breaths filled the silence of the hallowed room, shaping it into an airy cocoon around them. Will's hands clutched wordlessly at Hannibal's back. His arms shook, refusing to let go.

"You _were_ there," Hannibal said soothingly, as he pried enough space between their bodies to pull out. Will grimaced at the loss of contact. "Even though you didn't know. Even when you didn't think of me. _Always_."

He rolled onto his side, wrapping Will up with him. A flood of heady, soporific neurochemicals surged through their bloodstreams, with the sole purpose of binding them together in the aftermath of their intimacy. Will tucked himself against Hannibal's heat-flushed body in a tight jigsaw of limbs that he accepted with silent sanction. He cradled the other man's head against his shoulder with soft hands, knowing the gesture would infinitely broaden the cracks that ran through both of them—and not caring.

"You're here with me now. _Still_." He pressed a dry kiss to Will's temple as Will curled his leg around his calf, knitting their bodies even closer. As his blood cooled, Hannibal mused on how they must look from above. One body, smooth and blue-veined, woven against a downy, darker one. Did they appear as lovers entwined? Or merely as two animals rutting? Or perhaps their biological impulses—driven, as they were, by their rarified psychological ones—lay outside the realms of both.

He allowed his eyelids to droop closed as drowsiness flooded him. Will was quiet, his eyelashes flicking against Hannibal's shoulder as he blinked. Lost, perhaps, in his own thoughts.

After a few minutes, Will's limbs stilled and grew heavy as his breathing settled into a deeper, more rhythmic cadence. Hannibal kept his arm curled around Will's back, relishing the always-too-warm press of the other man's body, as he compiled a mental list of all that needed to be done.

The remains of their _réveillon_ , including Bedelia's body, required attention; his pesky thigh wound (which was throbbing now that the endorphins were starting to wear off) demanded dressing; and the sitting and dining rooms would need to be made presentable. He would allow himself to doze for a moment while Will slept, and then carefully disentangle himself, so as not to wake him.

If they were both lucky, Hannibal thought, no nightmares would follow Will tonight down the rabbit hole of his dreams.

 

___

 

A rush of sound broke Will from his sleep. _Was_ it a sound? No—it was more like a _feeling_. A thrashing, choking sensation that left the muscles in his arms and legs jumping. A nightmare.

He'd dreamed that he was a bee, drowning in its own honey. Sticky globs of it glued him to the inside of his hive, pinning his legs and wings, as a tide of golden death rose higher around him.

But there was no hive, no honey; only the stuffy satin duvet weighing down his naked body, and Hannibal's arm curled heavily over his side. Will blinked, clearing his head of the dream-fog and the pointless burst of adrenaline it had released into his bloodstream. It was quiet. He could feel Hannibal's sleep-slow breaths on his bare back, warming his goose-pimpled skin.

Underneath the blanket, his limbs felt sticky. In a rush of exhilaration and unease, Will remembered Hannibal smearing blood on the insides of his thighs—and, before that, the silky, startlingly warm cascade of crimson sliding over his hands from Bedelia's opened chest cavity. His skin was still colored by it, he saw as he looked down at his arms. The backs of his hands were crosshatched with burgundy splotches of dried blood—a pale, desiccated shadow of the violence his wrath had unleashed.

 _Not_ wrath _, Will—instincts_ , came Hannibal's voice in his head. Which was a bit strange, as the man was lying right beside him. Up _against_ him, in fact. Will couldn't remember Hannibal ever voluntarily embracing him in sleep. It was … unexpected. But not unwelcome.

Echoes of the previous night seemed to flow from Hannibal's touch into Will's skin. The climactic rise and fall of the French opera; the steam from the roast rising between the candle flames; the smoky-sweet aroma of rich Bordeaux riding the air—then rage, white and hot—and thick, gluey ropes of blood; the wet warmth of Hannibal's tongue inside his body; hot threads of Will's own semen splattering onto his stomach. Three deaths: one for Bedelia, one for Hannibal, and one for himself.

In an uncharacteristic twist, the first had been Will's own design, while the other two had been Hannibal's—or so it seemed. Sometimes it was hard to tell where the other man's calculations left off and Will's own desires began.

He shifted, causing Hannibal's arm to slide down his waist. The delicate bones of his wrist bumped across Will's ribs, although the movement didn't appear to wake him. He stretched; he was a little sore. Not as bad as the first time. But the satin duvet was too warm, and Will was thirsty. He'd managed to consume a good amount of the Bordeaux before everything had spiraled into chaos. It would be nice to shower; to wash away the crusty swirls of blood from his arms and hands.

He tugged the corner of the cover from his hips—and then, without warning, an explosion of sound fractured his senses. The glass inside the mirrors on the wall shattered simultaneously, struck by some invisible force. A tinkling hail of silver splinters shot toward the bed. Will dropped back to the mattress, flinging his arm over his face and waiting for the razor sting of glass to pummel his flesh—but he felt nothing. Heard nothing.

He lowered his arm. The frames of the mirrors were empty, save for a few jagged shards of glass still clinging to the insides. Only one remained intact. A large, boteh-shaped mirror, swathed in a swirling gilt frame, hung in the center of the wall, its polished surface unscathed. Will's heart froze as he looked upward into its reflection.

Abigail's lapis-blue eyes swam with pity as they met his. She gazed down from inside the frame like a ghost. Like a girl from some other world, where broken teacups gathered themselves back together and fathers didn't kill their daughters.

It was the third time in as many weeks that Will had looked into those eyes, and each time they'd broken something inside of him. He felt himself breaking now, cracking at the edges like the mirrors on the wall. Hannibal had said something about Abigail symbolizing their connection. This wasn't the kind of connection Will wanted—not with Hannibal, and definitely not with his memory of Abigail.  

"Why—" he started, his throat dry.

Before he could speak, Abigail tipped her head toward the bedroom door. Her eyes widened. _"They know,"_ she warned, blinking once as her gaze darted back to Will—and then she was gone, vanishing just as quickly as she'd materialized. The mirror was empty.

Will froze. Every inch of his skin prickled with cold; every nerve in his body had fired to attention. Behind him, Hannibal shifted. He slid his hand over the angular rise of Will's hip, cupping the bone there.

"What is it?" His voice was drowsy, muffled by the pillow.

"Something's wrong."

Will's words sounded far-away to his own ears. His heart thudded inside his chest, hollow and heavy. It was exactly as he'd feared—the reality he'd desperately, fruitlessly prayed would _not_ materialize when they came to Paris. Bedelia had delivered Will and Hannibal to their own slaughtering block—and Hannibal had _allowed_ her to lead them.

The other man lifted his head, at once suddenly and calmly alert. "What did you hear, Will?"

Will looked over his shoulder at Hannibal, his brow furrowing. " _Hear?_ I didn't hear anything. I _saw_ Abigail. The mirrors—they broke. She was in the glass."

A distant click that Will registered as the opening of a door reached their ears from outside the room. A sharp flicker of anticipation flared in Hannibal's eyes.

Will forced a look of grim surprise. " _Now_ I hear something."

He turned back to the wall. All of the mirrors had reformed, appearing inexplicably whole again—bright, unbroken geometries of glass. No hanging shards. No Abigail. Only the room, reflected back at them a dozen times, along with themselves, reposed side by side on the bed.

In the paisley-shaped glass where Abigail's face had appeared to him a moment before, Will saw Hannibal's eyebrow quirk up. He shifted to face him.

"You're not surprised," Will said, voice flat.

"Neither are you." Hannibal licked his lips. His expression was unreadable, though his eyes were rimmed with dark circles that spoke of too-little sleep. "I _am_ surprised you saw Abigail again, however."

"But you _knew_. You knew they'd come. You _knew_ this would happen!"

"You'd already calculated it yourself, and you still came with me. The responsibility is a shared one, Will. We have no secrets anymore." He paused. "Even if we sometimes pretend to."

Hannibal's eyes dropped to Will's bare torso and then to his uncovered lap in half-lascivious wandering. Will didn't care that he was being ogled; he was seething. Not only had his conjecture proven true; Hannibal had betrayed him—betrayed _them_. Again.

He dragged his gaze back to Will's face, his eyes softening at the anger they saw there. "Nothing was certain, of course. But it _was_ a predictable possibility."

Will chuckled, bitterness clogging his throat. "I know. It wasn't the only predictable hazard. You were going to do this sooner or later. _Test_ me. It was inevitable." Two rooms away, the soft swish of footfalls whispered across carpeting.

It was Hannibal's turn to feign surprise. "What made you believe I would test you?"

"'A beast dies. A hive is born. A marriage is betrayed." The words felt hollow as Will recited them from memory. "And now, the heathens are on our doorstep. Just like you said in Lithuania. Just like you _predicted_."

Hannibal pushed himself to a sitting position. "A poetic allegory. I wouldn't put too much stock in Biblical fables."

Will gritted his teeth. Heat was rising to his head, muddling his thoughts. "No, that's the story _you_ told me. _Our_ story. An overture, wrapped inside an omen." His voice was trembling. The past was slipping away from him in pieces, like the shards of some imaginary teacup.

"But it wasn't the only one," he continued, swallowing in an effort to keep his words steady. "Abigail _warned_ me—she said 'they know.' Those were your words—and mine. And now, hers. But they were yours first. Always _yours_."

Hannibal pushed off the bed and padded over to his suitcase, which was propped on a rack against the wall. He was already dressed in a pair of sage-colored lounge pants; obviously he'd been up at some point after Will had fallen asleep.

"I haven't dictated _all_ your stories," he said, throwing a pointed look over his shoulder before turning to rifle through his suitcase. "Where do your memories of Abigail come from? Things that really happened, or your own dreams and desires? _Think_ , Will."

A picture flashed into Will's mind. The river. He'd been teaching Abigail how to tie a blood knot, how to cast a fly rod. But that wasn't actually a memory. Abigail had never come with him to Wolftrap Creek; he'd never taught her how to fish. He'd only imagined it, as he rotted and stewed in the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, in an attempt to hold on to the shards of his sanity that were left.

He'd been daydreaming, too, as he'd walked with her through the Cappella Palatina in Palermo—or hallucinating; he still wasn't sure which. But he could keenly recall sitting with Abigail in a dark field in Minnesota, with Cassie Boyle suspended on a rack of antlers between them. It was the evening Abigail had called him _dad_. That had been real—hadn't it?

"Both, I think. Reality _and_ dreams," Will answered. His mouth felt dry.

Hannibal plucked a V-neck pullover from his suitcase and pulled it over his head. The steel-blue fabric snaked down his back, over the large, circular scar from the Verger branding iron and the purple ridge of tissue left by Dolarhyde's bullet.

"You have to look back into the past and understand the nature of your bond with her," Hannibal continued, bending back over his suitcase. "Or she'll keep appearing to you. Our memories shape our own view of ourselves. When the threads of memory become tangled, it can become difficult to understand who we are." He straightened up and turned to Will. "Who we once were."

A zoetrope of images burst into Will's mind in blinding, rapid succession—Abigail's frightened face in the attic of her father's cabin; the terror in her round blue eyes as she watched Will from the hallway mirror in Maryland; her blood spreading into a pool around him on the floor of the Hobbs' kitchen—on the floor of Hannibal's kitchen; her white face in the glass only moments ago, warning him.  _They know_. 

Low voices murmured from the sitting room outside the door, drawing closer. The back of Will's neck prickled as anger and fear coiled into a tight knot inside his gut.

"I  _know_  who I am," he said, gritting his teeth. "I don't need the past to remind me."

"Then show me."

Hannibal held out his hand. A steel PSM pistol was coiled in his palm like a small snake.

"When I told you the story of Samson and the Philistines, I didn't say the heathens would be _coming_. I said they'd be _slaughtered_. Time to celebrate your instincts, Will."

Hannibal extended the gun by the barrel toward him. "And perhaps put on some pants, unless you'd rather go into battle like a Gaul."

Will's eyebrows narrowed. "You—where'd you get that?" He slid off the bed, ignoring the offered weapon and grabbing his secondhand jogging bottoms from the floor.

"Chiyoh. She carries more than just the rifle." Hannibal shot him a knowing look. "I asked her to loan it to me before we left."

Will tugged the jogging pants over his hips and cinched the too-large waistband. Hot spikes of fury and trepidation ebbed at the edges of his consciousness as hushed murmurs reached them from the adjoining room.

"Zere is a body in ze second bedroom, a woma—" The words, spoken in a heavy French accent, were cut off by a noise of aggravation, followed by sharp " _Quiet!_ " from a vaguely female-sounding voice.

Will glanced at the gun, and then at Hannibal. The other man's eyes were blazing with the same preternatural shine as on the night they'd killed Dolarhyde—when Will had slid into bed beside him for the first time, and he'd called him his prodigal son.

Father and son—friend and enemy—doctor and patient—fugitive and accomplice—lover and beloved. The connection between them had always defied singular definition. It swelled and spilled beyond borders. What they had been; what they had become—it didn't matter anymore.

Will grabbed the gun from Hannibal's palm. "I thought we were past using intimacy as a _strategy_." His voice was full of rancor, and he knew that the other man could hear it. He didn't care. He switched off the safety with a flick of his thumb.

Hannibal's eyes swept over Will's face, studying it like he had in the Uffizi. As though he were a sculptor—and Will, his carefully chiseled creation.

"Instincts fuse the mind and body together in powerful designs," he answered. "Drawn between two people, those designs are transubstantiated. Ideas made flesh. They become _shared_ intimacies."

Will's shoulders tensed. His fingertip caressed the PSM's trigger guard. "So this is your idea of _communion_."

From outside the bedroom door, a familiar, commanding baritone called to them. "Okay. We know you're in there. Come out—and hands where I can see them!"

"If you like that imagery, sure," Hannibal answered, grinning. "Now. Let's step into death's foyer and greet the other guests. It would be rude not to."

 

___

 

Clutching the pistol in his stained hands, Will edged behind Hannibal as he cracked open the bedroom door.

"Coming, Jack," Hannibal called, his voice calm; almost cheerful.  

The door swung open. Hannibal stepped into the sitting room, hands raised, partially shielding Will—and Will's gun—from view.

Over Hannibal's shoulder, Will glimpsed a burly, besuited figure—Jack Crawford—and a slender, dark-haired, pale-faced one—Alana Bloom. Both were bent in a rigid stance, their Bureau-issued Glocks held out in front of them. They were flanked by two GIGN tactical agents in black ballistic vests, both holding P90 TR rifles trained on Hannibal—one at his forehead and one at his heart.

Will knew there would be more French special forces waiting on the floor below. However, it seemed that Jack's strategy for this particular apprehension was to _invite_ a surrender, rather than to impose one. Will's brow furrowed at the sight of Alana. _What was she_ doing _here?_ He noticed, with startled recollection, that the blue silk blouse underneath her pearl-colored pantsuit matched the color of her eyes exactly—just like the cambric robe she'd worn in his crucifixion dream.

Alana's presence was implausible, but not impossible—still, she didn't belong here. Putting her in the same room as Hannibal was dangerous. Had Will been in Jack's place, not in a million years would he have allowed her to come, regardless of any lingering desire for revenge or sense of responsibility. Didn't Alana know the risk she was walking into? Hadn't she stopped to think of Margot and their son?

 _Did_ you _think of Molly and Walter when you chose to come with me?_ Hannibal's voice conjectured, storming over his thoughts as if the man wasn't standing right there next to him. Cursing both Hannibal's pervasive hold on his brain and Alana's decision to play the heroine, Will stepped out from behind Hannibal. The movement simultaneously lured the rifle point away from Hannibal's heart and revealed Will's own firearm.

He raised the pistol to a spot just above Jack's head—high enough that he'd have to move it to actually shoot.

"Hello, Jack. What took you so long?" Hannibal asked amicably, holding his arms aloft. "Sorry we didn't have time to put on the coffee. We were just waking up."

Jack ignored him, keeping his eyes trained on the gun in Will's hand. He grimaced, his mouth flattening to a thin, disappointed line. "That thing better not be loaded, Will."

"It's loaded."

Will watched Alana's eyes shoot to Hannibal, taking in his sleep-mussed hair and bare feet in a single glance. Then they turned to him. She skimmed his bare torso, his bloodstained hands, his shorn head, and the still-raw scars on his cheek and shoulder. Only then did her eyes lift to meet his, widening in comprehension—but not, Will saw, in surprise.

The piercing blue of Alana's gaze arrested him, almost causing Will's hand to slip on the gun. He could remember a time, long ago, when he would've given anything to see those eyes look back at him in easy, mutual affection. But a gutted chimney had given way to Will's life unfolding like a paper accordion, culling pity from Alana's eyes as they measured him through the bars of a prison cell—and then to an _actual_ gutting, Alana's near-fatal fall out a window, and Abigail's second and final death—all brushstrokes in Hannibal's grand design. After that, Will figured there'd been no use in hoping that Alana would feel anything for him ever again—other than disdain, maybe.

"Well," Hannibal said, sarcasm honeying his voice. "As Will said, he's the one with the firepower. So since you can see I have no weapon, I'm going to relax my arms."

"Hannibal—" Will warned.

"Shut up, Will," Jack snapped, and then turned to glare at Hannibal. "And no, we _don't_ know that, so don't you dare move. Or _think_ about moving. Or even open your mouth to _speak!_ " His voice bellowed, reverberating off the corners of the small sitting room.

Outside the tall double window behind Jack and Alana, Will caught a glimpse of the spray-painted bulldog on the wall of the derelict factory—and, next to it, the graphite-colored skull gracing the front of the water tower. Both appeared to be grinning at him.

"Will." Jack's voice steadied as he caught and held his gaze. "I can _try_ to help you out of this. As long as you can prove you didn't do anything to Doctor Du Maurier."

His eyes roamed doubtfully over the dried blood on Will's arms and hands, which had started to flake off in small patches. Will tightened his grip on the pistol, neither confirming nor denying Jack's hope.

"But you've got to lower that thing first," Jack continued, "Or I won't be able to do _anything_." A hint of pleading rose in his voice—uncharacteristic for the BAU director. Jack's hands flexed on the handle of his own gun. "Nothing happens and nobody moves until you put down the gun. That's how it goes."

Hannibal's shoulders loosened as he lowered his arms halfway. He shot a pointed look in Will's direction. "Actually, Will, _don't_ do that. I doubt it'll benefit yourself, or me." He paused, and then added, " _Or_ them."

Will kept his arms raised, the PSM still fixed on the wall above Jack's head. His hands were starting to tremble. He didn't know how much longer he could hold the pistol steady. He needed to distract himself—to do something to offset the terrifying hopelessness of their situation.

"Actually, let's talk about Bedelia," Will said, his voice sharpening as he eyed Jack. "You followed her here, hoping your escaped monster might show his face. Isn't that right?" Beside him, Hannibal's body tensed at the words.

He pressed on, not caring _who_ he was about to offend. "Or was it a setup? Did you use her as bait to _lure_ him out of hiding? Because either way, Jack, you _knew_ you were putting her in danger. You had no misgivings about throwing her to the wolves. You just … _did it_. Like you always do, with people you think can be _useful_."

Will swallowed. His throat felt like it was coated in acid; his mouth stung with the citrusy tang of fear. One part of his brain was well aware that the danger Jack had put Bedelia in, unintentionally or not, had turned out to be Will himself. Another part—a part he kept buried deep, where no one else could reach—sympathized with Bedelia's seemingly masochistic willingness to be thrown back to _her_ wolf. He knew that whatever had happened all those years ago in Florence had bound her to Hannibal, both irreversibly and fatally.

"We were keeping watching on her. She specifically asked for _no_ detail," Jack rebuffed, straining to keep his vocal level in check. His Glock jerked impatiently as he spoke. "We lost track of her by the river yesterday evening. That was the last transmission we picked up from her cell." The director's voice slid to a low grind with his next words. "And if you know _anything_ about that, I strongly suggest you share it with me— _now_."

From the corner of his eye, Will saw Hannibal's lips curl into a smirk. "Well then," he said, dropping his hands fully to his sides. "What'll it be? The Philistines don't seem to understand your riddle. You might need to give them a clue."

Will's arms shook. His throat was throbbing with thirst, and a headache was beginning to bloom at the back of his skull. On top of everything else, his bladder was reminding him that he hadn't yet gotten rid of the two glasses of wine he'd had at dinner the night before.

"Kill them, Will!" Hannibal urged, his voice thunderous.

" _Stop!_ " Will roared, unsure if the command was meant for Hannibal, or Jack, or himself. He squeezed his eyes closed, blocking out all of them. He knew Jack wouldn't be able to help him—nor should he. There was no leverage or lie that could save or excuse him. And Alana's family didn't deserve to be destroyed for his and Hannibal's sins. This cross was one of Will's his own making, and it was breaking him.

"Will, look at me! You can end this _right now!_ " Jack's voice rose in warning as Will's head swam and swayed, his arms tensing with the effort of holding the gun—of holding _everything_ he'd been carrying since the night he'd fought his way out of the Atlantic. The bluff had been designed for his and Hannibal's ending, but the will to survive had overpowered him; it had overpowered both of them. Tenacity born from the promise of death, like a hive swarming to life within a carcass.

In a burst of startling clarity, the answer came. _There doesn't have to be a cross_. Abigail's dream-words echoed back at him, suddenly perspicuous. A disjoined sense of serenity overtook him as the weight was lifted. He didn't need to carry it any longer.

Will's eyes snapped open. He knew he couldn't ask for Bedelia's forgiveness, or Jack's, or Alana's; and he'd never really understood how to give it to himself. But he didn't need to drown in his own honey, either. That nectar was for himself and Hannibal, and them alone—a secret ambrosia that neither Jack nor Alana would ever understand, and could never taste. Hannibal was the only one who would be able to forgive him for everything that had happened. That _would_ happen.

"Put. Down. The gun!" Jack barked, advancing toward them, his Glock aimed to shoot.

Without warning, a burst of sound ripped through the air with a high, electric shock, shattering the left pane of the double window. Will ducked automatically, pulling Hannibal down with him.

Glass sprayed onto the hardwood at Jack's heels as he staggered, blood spurting from the bullet hole in the back of his neck. The gun in his left hand waved as he clutched at his throat. A stream of purple-red blood blossomed between his fingers like the juice from a crushed fruit.

Alana's eyes widened in terror as she whipped around to watch Jack crumple to the floor. In the same moment, Hannibal threw a grin up at the shattered window, his face a mixture of exhilaration and gloating. Will's stomach sank as the realization hit him like a punch: _Hannibal knew. He'd always known._ He had anticipated Will's plan exactly. It was the reason why he'd brought only the pistol.

He didn't have time to trace the thought any further. The top windowpane exploded, and the P90 in the hands of the GIGN agent to Jack's left flipped into the air as his body convulsed in a violent arc. He fell to the hardwood three feet from Jack, a bright red stream of blood spurting from an identical wound in his neck.

Within the space of a breath, a third rifle shot rang out, and the agent to Alana's right dropped to the floor with a thud.

Will turned to see Hannibal rise from his crouched position. He towered over the three felled agents, seemingly pleased with their pain, although he hadn't caused it. Will stumbled to his feet, smelling the sharp promise of more death. Atop the colorful Persian rug, Jack writhed on his side in a spreading puddle of his own blood. His dark eyes rolled up to meet Hannibal's and his mouth opened, but no sound came from his torn throat. Hannibal narrowed his eyes, contemplating Jack the way a wolf might an injured deer.

Then Alana swung around, her eyes like ice. Her hand tightened on her Glock as she pointed it at Hannibal, then Will, and then back to Hannibal. Her hips shifted anxiously as indecision wracked her posture. _Fly, Alana—don't fight_ , Will urged silently. He sensed Hannibal's body tense toward her, readying to spring—and then a fourth whistle tore through the air, sinking a bullet high into the flesh of Alana's shoulder. 

With a stuttered cry, she whirled and fell to floor as if she'd been kicked. Her gun clattered to the hardwood, out of reach. Alana struggled against the bright crimson stain blooming across the shoulder of her suit jacket. Her right arm hung limply at her side, fingers slack— _likely nerve damage_ , _but not lethal,_  Will's brain automatically assessed.

Hannibal stepped to Jack and swept the dying man's handgun from his grasp in a single, fluid motion. He turned to Alana, aiming the weapon at the back of her head. She twisted onto her back to face him, curling her uninjured arm over her forehead in a feeble gesture of protection.

Cold air, tinged clear and sharp with the promise of snow, rushed in through the shattered picture window against which Hannibal was silhouetted. The weak autumn light contrasted sharply against his powerful frame, shrouding him in shadow—the last thundercloud in a dying storm.

"No." The syllable slipped from Will's lips like a blade, slicing the silence. Jack wheezed for breath on the ruined Persian rug, his shattered trachea failing to process the oxygen his lungs desperately craved. Will ignored him. Neither he nor Jack could help each other now.

Hannibal's eyes were sharp as they met Will's. "Unfortunately, it seems our guardian angel missed. I'm not letting Alana slip away again." He glanced down at Alana. "I made her a promise, years ago, and I intend to keep it."

"No, Hannibal. Not this time." His voice sounded weary to his own ears, and he suddenly realized that he was. Weary, used up, broken, and _tired_ beyond belief.

"Then it's going to be like Jack said," Hannibal spat, casting a scathing look at the choking BAU director. "Neither of us moves until you understand what has to happen. Until you _see_."

Will moved toward the picture window in what felt like slow motion, lowering the pistol and raising his other hand in supplication. From his peripheral vision, he saw Alana's head twist to look up at him. He ignored her, keeping his gaze locked on Hannibal's dark, gleaming eyes.

"You _know_ what we need to do, Will!" Hannibal's voice rose to fever pitch. "You know there's only one way. Listen to your instincts!"

"I understand now," Will said, his voice steady. "I _see_."

Hannibal had been wrong when he'd said Will would stop running from the same people and things once he embraced his instincts—his _essence_. As long as he and Hannibal remained united, the nightmarish theatre performance would continue to repeat. The characters' names would change, but the roles would remain the same. There would be another Garrett Jacob Hobbs. Another Abel Gideon. Another Miriam Lass. Another Beverly, another Bedelia, and another Jack. Maybe even another Abigail.

They would never be able to escape those whose lives crashed heedlessly and inescapably into theirs, commanding sacrifice—regardless of the transgressions their lambs brought to the table. And no matter where he and Hannibal ran or how far they traveled, death would always be waiting to open the door for them when they arrived. In that way, death was a perfect gentleman. But there were no gentle stars hovering in the twilight of his and Hannibal's future—only the cold abyss of a gaping mouth, demanding to be filled. 

Hannibal smiled as Will stepped over Alana's prone body on the floor. He shot her a cold look as he took his place at Hannibal's side. It was where he belonged; he couldn't argue that with himself anymore.

Alana's mouth dropped open. She'd still believed the good in him would win out, Will realized. _That's something,_ he thought, with a vague ache. _Too late_.

The high breeze whipped around and inside the windowsill, caressing his and Hannibal's thinly-clad bodies with its frigid fingers.

"Together, then?" Hannibal said, his brown eyes warming with affection.

Will raised his gun. "Together," he affirmed, his voice hollow.

A cacophony of shouting voices razed their ears as the door to the apartment banged open. A half-dozen black-clad tactical agents flew into the room like a swarm of wasps, their rifles raised to sting.

"Shoot them!" Alana yelled to the agents.

Before Hannibal could raise Jack's gun—before the GIGN team understood what was happening—Will flung his arm around Hannibal's side and pulled him close, crushing their bodies together.

"Will you forgive me?" he whispered, his voice breaking on the sound. Hannibal's lips parted as one of the agents yelled: " _Hé! Arrête_!"

In the split second before Hannibal's answer and the convergence of their thousand possible savage futures, Will lifted the pistol to the scar on Hannibal's temple and pulled the trigger. A burst of plum-colored blood and brain tissue exploded from the other side of his head, splattering the window frame. Jack's Glock crashed to the floor.

Chiyoh's cry of betrayal was audible from the window of the water tower opposite. It rang in Will's ears as he let the PSM slide from his hand and caught Hannibal's body as it fell.

Loyal Chiyoh—who'd followed them from Lithuania with her rifle to protect Hannibal, as Will had asked her to. Who'd warned him that no one could tread the nightingale floors of Hannibal's heart without also becoming trapped by them.

He looked out the empty window, his eyes alighting on the grimacing skull below the window of Chiyoh's sniper nest. It would be the last image he would see—the last face to be imprinted on his mind. In a way, Will supposed it was absurdly appropriate. The skull was like a drab caricature of the grotesquely stunning _La Morte_ mosaic in the Cappella Palatina—the first place to bridge his and Hannibal's memory palaces.

 _Abigail was right,_ he thought as he wrapped his arms around Hannibal's back, struggling to lift his sagging frame. The riddle was wrong. There was no sweetness—no honey—in death. _Never really is_.

 _"Will, don't!"_ Alana's cry was a distant echo as Will staggered to the sill, hugging Hannibal's lifeless body to his chest. The weight of him was crushing—infinitely heavier without the frigid waters of the Atlantic to buoy him.   

Another rifle shot rang out, triggering an uproar among the shocked agents behind them. The bullet whistled harmlessly past Will's ear as he stepped onto the window ledge, tugging Hannibal alongside him. He imagined Chiyoh's hands shaking on her rifle, helpless in her rage as she crouched inside the tower above.

Below him, the dark waves rose up with icy arms, offering to embrace him—to drag him under, into their shapeless black abyss. Will breathed in, pulling Hannibal against him. His eyelids fluttered closed.

He took one last step, pushing himself and Hannibal off the ledge and into their furious, final fall.

Their bodies dropped like stones. They hit the water, and were gone.

 

 _"Forgiveness is too great and difficult for one person._ _It requires two."_ —Bedelia Du Maurier


End file.
